#Three finger Elios

[adulthumanproblem]

Hm, ach, nö. KI generierte Bilder wirken so extrem unseriös

[babydollmarauders]

1 + 2 = “NOT AGAIN!”

part of the el!hughes au

summary: in which jack and y/n (lovie) are pretty happy, but are even happier by the end of the day.

my fingers tremble as the back of my knuckles graze over the soft and supple skin on the cheek of my three month old, whom rests in his bassinet.

“what are you three doing today?” my husband lounges on the bed, his own hand sprawled on my sweatpants clad thigh; while i sit on the edge of the bed beside him.

“i think your mom is planning on taking El out to the water,” i reply, voice soft as i stare at our son, “and Leo and i are gonna go shopping.”

“shopping?” Jack inquires. the linen sheet falls down his toned stomach as he sits up to look at Elio in his bassinet, whose eyes crinkle when he sees his father.

“yeah, i need new clothes. don’t i? yes, i do. yes, i do.” my tone is squeaky and high pitched as i direct my sentences toward my baby.

the bedroom door squeaks as tiny toddler feet slap against the floor, running into the room and clambering up onto the bed.

“daddy! uncle winny ‘time to go!’” El stitches together through labored breaths, her chubby cheeks red from the exertion of running.

“uncle quinny says it’s time to go?” Jack deciphers her words, pulling the two year old into his lap as she tries to peer into the bassinet.

“mhm!” she hums, much too distracted by the baby that has scrunched his body up and opened his mouth into a yawn.

setting our daughter aside, Jack rises from the bed, hissing when i poke at a bruise on his hip as he stretches out his limbs.

he received that particular bruise as he was tending to Eleanor last night; running into her dresser as he navigated the darkness of her room after she woke up from a bad dream.

“lovie,” he grunts, batting my hand away and stepping back, “how would you like it if i poked your bruises?”

jaw dropping in disbelief, i scoff, “you do! all the time!”

a mischievous smirk spreads across his lips, accompanied by a chuckle, “i know.”

i scoot up the bed, El clambering into my lap and resting her head on my shoulder as i watch Jack bound around the room. from the closet, to the dresser, to the en-suite, and back to the dresser, until he’s dressed and ready to head off to the rink for training.

walking back to the bed, he dips down to peck a kiss to the top of El’s head before pressing his lips to mine in a goodbye kiss. when he pulls away, he turns and leans down even farther in order to kiss Elio’s chubby cheek.

“call me if you need anything,” he speaks, gathering his gear bag off the top of the dresser, “i love you, girls.”

“and you too, Leo!” he hastily adds as he leaves the room, just in time for his brother to call from the bottom of the lake house steps.

“Jack! let’s go!”

“i’m coming!”

**

a smile twists at my lips as i watch my toddler cuddle up to her grandmother, her eyes trained on the princess movie that plays on the living room tv.

“hey momma,” i start, catching Ellen’s attention as i pass by the couch, “i’m heading to put Elio down for nap.”

“okay, honey.” my husband’s mother nods, “i’ve got Eleanor, why don’t you go ahead and take a nap too?”

“yeah, maybe.” i shrug, “thank you.”

with the three month old in my arms, i climb the stairs, turning into Jack and i’s room at the top of the steps.

in a post-feed haze, Elio’s eyes are struggling to stay open and alert, rather crossing and fluttering shut before he pries them back open. the sight makes me smile softly, gently transferring him to the bassinet by the bed. almost immediately, his eyes fall shut and tiny little snores fill the air as he finally drifts to sleep.

i sit on the edge of the bed, admiring the infant in his little blue onesie as his fingers twitch in his sleep. and in a motherhood haze, i quickly lose track of how long i’ve sat, just watching him sleep.

“you get the snoring from your father.” i whisper, a loving gaze in my eyes as i scan his face.

“he does not! you snore like a freight train!” i hear from the doorway, my head snapping up to look behind me and finding Jack stalking into the room; closing the door behind him.

“okay, we both snore.” i concede, watching as my husband sets his gear bag back in place upon the dresser and strips down to get in the shower, “but i do not sound like a train!”

“no, you’re right.” he remarks, “you sound more like a helicopter.”

“i do not! i snore like the delicate angel that i am.”

“angel? yes. but snorer? also, yes.” Jack chuckles.

“we get it, i snore.” i huff, “how was training?”

“it was fine. i just need a shower and a nap now.”

i suppose he should enjoy naps while he can. it’s easy enough for him to have one right now.

“did you go shopping?” he asks, disappearing into the en-suite before i hear the shower water turn on.

“yeah! lemme show you what i got!” i leap from the bed, swiping the shopping bags off the floor by the bedroom door.

“shower fashion show.” my husband states, “i’m sweaty and i’m not about to listen to you complain about how bad i smell.”

“good idea.”

he hops in the shower as i bring the bags into the bathroom, dumping the contents upon the counter. and for the next fifteen minutes, i’m in a flurry of quick changes and listening to his comments of ‘oooh’ and ‘i like that’ and ‘you look so good in that, lovie’.

“use my conditioner.” i tell him as i step into a new article of clothing, “your hair is getting dry from the lake water and the sun.”

“copy that.” he calls out, and i turn around just in time to see him squirt a dollop of my expensive conditioner into his palm.

“okay, last outfit!” i announce, and he turns his head to look at me as i twirl.

“that’s pretty.” he comments amidst rinsing the product from his hair.

“hey, babe?” i study myself in the mirror as i speak, turning to the side. my heart races, and i’m fairly certain i can feel it knocking around against my ribcage as Jack hums in acknowledgement as he turns off the water, “does this skirt make me look pregnant?”

i watch his reflection in the mirror as he steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist as he studies my figure.

his brows furrow, face pinching in confusion as he analyzes my stomach; a small tummy left over from Elio’s birth nearly four months ago, “no?”

“‘cause i am.”

his entire body goes rigid in the mirror, eyes wide like a deer in headlights.

“say that again?” he chokes out, and i finally turn to face him as an anxiety ridden smile plays at my lips, tears gathering in my eyes.

“i’m pregnant.” i repeat, “again.”

Jack steps forward, wet hands plastering to my hips as his eyes dart between my stomach and my face.

“you’re sure?” he questions, receiving a nod in reply, “but we’ve only- the once- and i-”

“the once is all it took,” i shrug, resisting the urge to gnaw at my lip in worry, “i went to the doctor today before i went shopping, just to confirm what the test said a few days ago��. i’m 10 weeks.”

“three kids,” he breathes out, “oh lovie, how are we gonna do this?”

“with a lot of help from your parents and luke?” i tell him, but it comes out as more of a question than a statement. “how are you feeling?”

he blinks a few times before finally looking me in the eyes, pulling me flush to his dripping chest, “happy? scared? excited.”

“yeah?” my smile widens into a grin as his forehead drops against mine.

“yeah,” he reiterates, “we’re having another baby.”

Jack grins, his hands snaking down my hips until he reaches the crease between my ass and my upper thighs. lifting me up, my legs wrap around his waist as his lips crash against mine.

he steps forward until my ass rests on the counter, his lips trailing away to leave open mouthed kisses down my neck.

my breathing picks up, my heart pounding as my fingers sneak into the hem of the towel around his waist.

it’s at that moment that a faint cry echoes into the bathroom, alerting us that Elio has awoken.

“better get used to that, stud,” i laugh as Jack pulls away, a whine escaping his lips as he throws his head back in complaint, “because we’re gonna be getting interrupted a whole lot for the next eighteen years.”

**

“hey, Quinny,” i call out from the living room couch as he stands from his seat, glancing over as he hears my voice, “are you going upstairs?”

“i wasn’t planning on it, but i can?”

“can you grab Elio’s pacifier? there should be one in his bassinet, but if not then there’s some in my nightstand.”

“yeah, be right back.” Quinn jogs up the stairs, waving his hand up in acknowledgment when i call out a thank you.

the entire household is lounging in the living room, a child friendly movie playing on the tv. Trevor, Cole, and Luke build an intricate castle out of blocks with El, whilst Jim and Ellen sit on the other side of the couch, with Jack sitting beside me, and Alex sitting in an arm chair. Adam, Luca, Mark, Ethan, and Dylan all sit in chairs that they pulled in from the dining area, laughing at the sight of their friend taking building blocks with his niece very seriously.

“Trevor, stop. if you put that block there, it’s gonna fall!” Luke huffs, knocking the red block out of Trevor’s hand and onto the floor.

“you’re gonna teach baby Hughes bad things! stop hitting!” Trevor argues, making Cole roll his eyes as he continues building another wall of the already ginormous castle with El.

“your uncles are silly,” Cole tells El, tone serious and no baby voice in sight, “we don’t argue, do we? you and i, we make a good team.”

“she’s two, of course you get along with her!” Trevor grunts, “but if you were paired with mr. hot hands over here, you’d argue too!”

“i’m only hitting you because you won’t listen!”

the entire living room full of people is practically teeming with laughter at the scene on the floor.

“WHAT THE HELL!”

everyone freezes, the room falling silent as we all turn to watch Quinn bound down the steps.

his face is paler than usual, his eyes wild as he glares at my husband. my eyes dart around, scanning his stiff form. my body tenses as i see what’s clutched in his hand; the ultrasound photos from my doctors appointment just this afternoon.

i forgot i stuck them in my nightstand drawer. fuck.

holding them up, he glares at his brother, “NOT AGAIN!”

“hey! it takes two!” Jack pawns our small son off to Ellen, leaping from the couch and holding his hands out in front of him in attempt to placate his older brother.

“you really cant keep your hands to yourself, can you?” Quinn gruffs, “that’s practically my little sister! the poor girl can’t catch a break!”

“she’s my wife! and that night was her idea!” my cheeks flush as he announces our escapades to the room of our friends and family, “how were we supposed to know that would happen?!”

“well you’ve already had two! i think you should know by now how it works!” Quinn hisses.

“okay, can we just calm down?!” i snap, standing from my seat and facing Quinn.

“you two should be using protection,” Alex mutters from his seat. shaking his head, he looks over at Trevor and Cole, “i swear she gets pregnant every time he breathes on her.”

“shut up,” Jack growls, glaring at his best friends as they all snicker.

“you’re pregnant?!” Ellen shrieks, making Elio twitch in her arms. she looks down at the bundle in her arms, her voice softening “oh sorry, sweetheart.”

“we weren’t planning on telling anyone yet.” Jack sneers, eyes glaring daggers at Quinn.

“but yes,” i smile, looking around the room as i begin rubbing my husband’s shoulder in attempt to calm him, “we’re having another baby.”

“the last one for awhile, i hope?” Trevor questions, an eyebrow raised, but he cowers when i glare at him, “what?! the rest of us can’t keep up!”

“the last one ever.” Jack announces. “we’re not planning on having anymore. we decided a long time ago that we’re a ‘three and done’ kind of family.”

“yeah, alright.” Luke scoffs, “we’ll see how that goes.”

“can’t we all just be happy?!”

everyone’s eyes dart to me as i stomp my foot, tears welling in my eyes as i begin to feel overwhelmed with all the chaos and panic that’s filled the room.

“Jack and i are happy. we’re having another baby. that’s that! there’s no more discussion to be had!” i cross my arms over my chest.

suddenly feeling very immature for my outburst, i plant myself back onto the couch, taking my baby back from Ellen and focusing on his sweet little face to calm myself.

the room is still silent, everyone still staring at me as Jack lowers himself back down onto the couch beside me.

“hey,” he coos, “it’s okay. i’m sure they’re all very happy for us. right, guys?”

a chorus of ‘yeah!’s and ‘congratulations!’ fills the air, and my body relaxes into Jack’s embrace.

“i’m sorry, i overreacted,” Quinn sighs, crouching down beside the couch in order to look into my eyes. his hand splays across my knee, “you guys make some pretty cute kids, i can’t wait to meet the next little one.”

“yeah?” i murmur, looking at my brother-in-law.

“yeah. i just got a bit scared because you just had Elio and i’m worried for your health.” he explains, “but i promise that i am happy for you guys.”

“please don’t worry, Q,” i tell him, “my doctor says it’s completely okay and that i’m healthy. there’s nothing to worry about.”

“okay. as long as your doctor says you’re good.” he amends, and i nod.

“well i’m not good!” Jack huffs, “i’d like an apology!”

Quinn rolls his eyes, “i’m sorry, Jack.”

“not forgiven.”

“are you sure you want another baby with him? he’s acting like a child.” Luke remarks.

looking over at Jack, i smile as he grins innocently at me, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing the top of Elio’s head.

“yeah, i’m sure.”

[aventurineswife]

Hii can i request kafka with a funny and comedic reader? like jessica and roger rabbit type of dynamic, kafka swooning after reader because they makes her laugh... no pressure tho, thank you!

“They make me laugh”

Summary: Kafka finds herself inexplicably drawn to you—a comedic, chaotic whirlwind of absurdity. Despite her usual composed demeanor, your relentless antics and quick wit break through her cool exterior, leaving her laughing and swooning in equal measure.

Tags: Kafka x Reader, Humor/Comedy, Fluff, Light Romance, Opposites Attract, Femme Fatale x Chaotic Fool, Slow Burn(?).

Kafka sat in the dimly lit corner of the Stellaron Hunters' hideout, one hand swirling the crimson liquid in her glass, the other flipping through Elio's latest vision notes. A quiet, calculated serenity surrounded her—until you waltzed in.

“Kafkaaaa!” you hollered, your voice ringing off the walls like a loose bell. “You gotta see this! I invented the world’s first sentient whoopee cushion! It talks back! Look, look!”

Before she could respond, you plopped the deflated contraption onto a nearby chair. The device let out a dignified harrumph before stating, in a monotone, “You’ve made poor choices, sitting here.”

A snort escaped Kafka’s lips. The wine glass paused mid-air, a hint of mirth breaking her perpetually composed demeanor. She eyed you with that dangerously alluring gaze of hers, one brow slightly raised.

“Let me guess,” she said, voice dripping with silky amusement, “you’ve already tested it on Bladie?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you said proudly. “It told him, ‘For someone so sharp, you’re a little flat.’ He chased me for three corridors, Kafka. Three. Worth it.”

Her laugh was soft but genuine, and the corner of her lips quirked up into a smirk. Most people feared Kafka for her cool, calculating nature. But you? You seemed entirely immune to her enigmatic aura, wielding absurdity like a weapon. She found it... fascinating.

“Do you ever take a break from being ridiculous?” she teased, leaning forward, chin resting delicately on her hand.

“Do you ever take a break from looking so good in spider patterns?” you shot back without missing a beat.

That caught her off guard. Her laugh came unbidden this time, smooth and melodic, a sound so rare you couldn’t help but grin wider. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, shaking her head.

“Impossibly funny, impossibly charming,” you listed with mock seriousness, counting on your fingers. “And impossibly good at finding all your weak spots.”

Kafka raised a perfectly shaped brow. “My weak spots? Careful, dear. I don’t take kindly to threats.”

“Not a threat!” you said, holding your hands up in mock surrender. “I just happen to know you melt like a popsicle in a furnace every time I say something stupid. Admit it. You’re smitten.”

She leaned back in her seat, fingers steepled. Her smirk grew more dangerous, yet her gaze softened in a way that only you seemed to elicit. “And if I am?” she asked, voice velvet-smooth.

You blinked, taken aback. Then, with a dramatic swoon that could’ve put any opera diva to shame, you staggered. “She admits it! Oh, woe is me, the dazzling lady with the wine hair is utterly captivated! Someone fetch me a fainting couch!”

Kafka rolled her eyes, though her laughter rang out once more, unrestrained and genuinely amused. You had the uncanny ability to crack through her carefully constructed façade, and she found herself enjoying it far more than she should.

“Come here, you absolute fool,” she said, tugging on your arm until you stumbled closer. She pressed a quick, teasing kiss to your cheek, leaving you momentarily stunned.

“See?” she murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I do like my comedy sharp.”

You grinned like a Cheshire cat. “And I like my mysterious femme fatales giggling at my antics. Guess we’re a perfect match, huh?”

Kafka only hummed, that dangerous smirk never leaving her face. “Oh, you have no idea.”

[blank-house]

Can we talk about clingy Elio? My heart!! 🥺❤

Sure! Picture this anon!

Elio— hanging out with his friends on the Green, waiting for you. You walk out of your lecture, on your way to your next class, and he sees you out the corner of his eye.

There’s a shift in the energy. It’s high, dazzling, brilliant and all because he started grinning at the sight of you. It’s the only thing his friends get to see before he’s zipping down the Green to catch up to you.

If you’re okay with touch, once he’s near, he wraps you in a big hug, sweeping you off your feet. And if you aren’t, he brakes before you with a little squeak— and you can’t tell if it’s because he nearly toppled over just then or because he’s trying his hardest not to tackle you into a hug.

But there’s that smile you’re so familiar with and you’re already cracking a grin as he greets you with a breathless “Hey”.

“Going to your next class? Let me walk you!”

“Didn’t we talk about this? You don’t have to wait for me, your lab is across campus.”

“Mm, yes. You’re absolutely correct but counterpoint— I’m fast and I know I can make it if I run! Besides, I haven’t seen you all morning.”

If he had picked you up, he puts you down gently here, but his arms remain around your waist— drumming a happy beat against your back. And if he hadn’t there’s a reflexive glance toward your hand, a shuffling of his feet as he steps just a little bit closer, and pinches your sleeve. It’s what you’re comfortable with so it’s all he’ll take and he rocks on his heels to burn himself of the need to pull you in.

Chuckling, you step away and there’s a beat where he wilts until you move to hold his hand.

“We still got a date later today, right? I’ll see you then. Go and don’t be tardy.”

“I won’t— I swear. It’s practically around the corner and—“

With a roll of your eyes, you press a quick kiss to his cheek. Stunned, he belatedly turns his head to chase after but you’re already marching down the sidewalk with a flutter of your fingers.

“Later tonight, Elio! Now get to class, you goof.”

His chest rises with unsung affections, a medley of “I’ll miss you,” or “I can’t wait,” and another set of three words he’s been dying to shout since he’s discovered his feelings for you— but it all dissipates through a wistful sigh as he watches you leave.

He doesn’t mean to be clingy, at least not while you’re still trying to get accustomed to this relationship. The last thing he ever wants to do is fuck up one of the best things that’s ever happened to him in a long while. So he’ll squash the intensity of his feelings for however long you’ll need, keep them at bay until you’re ready for them.

But even so— he hopes you’ll kiss him again. He hopes you’ll want to reach for him first. He hopes that you’ll search for him in the off chance that he’s near. But more than anything, he just hopes that you love him in the way he so badly wants to love you.

[voidcat]

Blade & number 13 (trying to get the other to dance with them)

wc: 1k & gn!reader. reader is implied to be a stellaron hunter

a/n: posting this separately instead of answering the ask because tumblr decided to delete it(-:

The venue is bustling with noise and energy all around.

Everyone around is lost in the excitement, patiently waiting for the orchestra to return, for the grand party to start. All donned in tailored clothes, some going for masks, some for ridiculously big hats– a scene out of a movie or a novel, if you’d say so yourself. Were it not for your dearest partner’s grunts and huffs every once in a while to drag you out of the sweet dream.

Blade has been assigned to several missions back to back already, you’d understand the burnout and the exhaustion that comes with it. And still, no matter the work or the goals to tick off, you find a way to enjoy each moment– or so you console yourself, in the words of Silverwolf.

The muffled sounds stop in a sudden and a one, a two, a three– you can hear the famous orchestra starting the evening.

You cast a glance Blade’s way. Changed into something other than his usual clothes, the suit fits him perfectly. Elio had said it’d be wise to blend in, even though your jobs were minor compared to Silverwolf’s. Just keep an eye on, and maybe enjoy the evening, consider it a little gift. And grateful you were, practically giddy since you were informed of what the mission entailed.

Yet a part of you fears dragging Blade into all this, guilt sitting heavy at your belly. The lack of reactions, save for the occasional scoffs when someone dashes too close to him, do not help you once bit. A drink might help, or so you think and return with two glasses, offering one to him.

The drink melts on your tongue, relaxes all the muscles in your body. Known for its balls and events, even their drinks hold no competition. A glance Blade’s way and you can see him slowly sipping his drink, content just to see that much, hoping it might help his mood throughout the evening and until your departure.

Time ticks and by then, everyone in the grand salon has immersed themselves into dancing, swinging gracefully with the melody. The soft notes of the grand piano fills the air, the violins join in, even just from the sounds, you can picture the pianist’s fingers gliding off, flying off the keys, no longer just making music but crafting something sacred, something holy into life with mere presses.

The orchestra carries away the people, and with their melodies, they capture you too. You don’t notice Blade’s staring, nor him gently taking the glass off your hands and offering them to one of the servants making his rounds down there.

The melody rises and rises, picking up its face and with a snap, ends, taking your breath with it.

A moment’s pause and a waltz begins.

Turning hurriedly Blade’s way, hands balled into fists, you look so excited, stars in your eyes– he worries for a second if he got caught.

“Please.” you say in a whisper, and he looks at you with curiosity, please, what?..

“Just one dance, would you grant me this much?” you ask, hands dropping down, stroking the fabric of your outfit now, fiddling with the little embroidered details. Blade stands there, still silent, contemplating an answer, lips parted. “It’d help blend into the crowd too, you know… so we can keep not just an eye but also an ear out.” you try one last time, one last attempt. It feels easier to use the mission as an excuse than to admit you just want to stand closer to him, be like one of those couples you have been admiring for the past hour.

Eyes cast to the side, Blade avoids your gaze. Unsure how to feel when you followed with that excuse just to rationalize your request. Waiting and waiting, another song begins and draws close to an end and Blade realizes too late when he notices the signs of your fidgeting that he’s been making you wait, making you nervous and–

“Fine.” he says, his voice betraying the blunt answer and he reaches out his palm to you.

Eyes wide open, you freeze for a moment and snap out of it when he raises an eyebrow at you, slightly shaking his offered hand. With a skip to your step, you take his hand and a violin fills the air, lazy and faint.

The waltz begins softly, building up, and with it, so do the two of you.

Though you were unsure what to expect, Blade proves to be in control so far, taking the steps accordingly, swinging to the melody. 

It is a simple ballroom waltz, easy to pick up on after observing the people for the past hour. Seeing that the expression of surprise is still evident on your face, accompanying a soft smile, Blade feels a satisfaction blooming in his chest.

Were the purpose to truly keep an eye out and listen in, this would truly serve as the most ideal cover to blend in to the crowd– but too lost in your own little bubble, all the two of you can hear, feel, sense, see, and smell are each other; and the fairy-tale music that carries you throughout the ballroom with each step.

Blade holds you close and holds you gently, leading you into the dance, loosening his grip enough so you can dance freely. The dance goes on and you feel lost in his warm hold. For the first time in a long while forlorn eyes carry the gentle autumn breeze within their orbs, a man more than just the blade he wields, broken down to fragments. The melody picks up and Blade leads you for a spin, his other hand waiting in the air to pull you back to him–

In a sudden a loud crack echoes in the air.

The music halts, darkness overtakes the ballroom right after. The both of you frozen in place, Blade prepares to unsheathe his sword, his other hand standing over your skin still, keeping you close to his chest in a protective manner.

At the surprise of the moment for a second, the grand space is dead silent. And soon after follows people’s worried murmurs, followed by a scream that is never missing in such environments.

Silverwolf must be done with her part already. 

As you let out a sigh, you feel Blade’s hand relax on you, and returning to his side. Taking a step back, you copy the gesture and remove your hands from his frame. 

Time to bid goodbye to the fairytale it seems.

[crguang]

607. I MISS YOU.

" And I found photographs of our school, on the day we met I thought that you were so beautiful, it was love, I guess."

VIOLINIST AU MASTERLIST

It's here!! The official lore-filled post for the Violinist AU that my wonderful anons, @shalomniscient's godly input and I have concocted over the past three months. This masterlist will serve as guidelines for the AU so that newcomers and current enjoyers (me included lol) can easily refer to it and see if any burning questions have already been answered or not. Speaking of, every anon questions and rambles can currently be found under the #violinist au tag. Things will inevitably be added as time goes by, so I'll do my best to update this post when they do. Let's get into it! ♫

SOME BASICS!

SUMMARY ♫

╰┈➤ Kafka and Reader are classical musicians and childhood best friends who have been playing together since their respective instructors discovered their potential and made them work together on a piece at just 8 years old. At the time, they are both young prodigies in the making who share a dream of becoming the best in their field. They navigate the carefreeness of childhood, heavy expectations, close friendships and tumultuous high school years hand in hand. As they grow, so does their music. The two are intrinsically tangled up; where there is one, you can surely find the other. One day, when they're around 16 years old, R moves away. Their last bus ride together is a memory Kafka holds close to her heart and she remembers it viscerally whenever comes the time to bring an especially complex composition to life. This musical prowess eventually becomes the source of her recognition and success.

After R moves away, Kafka loses herself in her ambitions and Elio's strict teaching. He continues to groom her into the perfect musician and has little regard for her self-destructive behavior if the results surpass his expectations. She isolates herself from her friends, practices until her fingers ache, and spends a long time exteriorizing her feelings of abandonment through her music. She’s snarky, irritable and mean. She grows up to play the violin professionally and is recognized as a prodigy in that world. She goes through pianist accompaniment after pianist accompaniment, always looking for the “missing key” to her art that’s disappeared alongside R, but it remains unattainable.

R grows up insecure due to Elio’s hurtful favouritism towards Kafka; they never feel skilled enough to keep up with her, strong enough to shoulder their instructor’s expectations for them and thus worthy of Kafka’s attention and respect. When they move, they stop playing the piano for a while. Even they pick it back up eventually, it’s never in a professional context. While KFR have different relationships with music, since they’ve learned it as a duo, they understand each other’s art like no one else. R now makes records of songs covers that they’ve only recently started selling due to their popularity among the locals. It’s a hobby, not a career.

PRESENTING... KFR ♫

╰┈➤ KAFKA

We all know her, we all adore her, forever a superstar... Kafka's as close to HSR's canon as I could make her. Since this is an AU, there are obviously backstory/character traits that I've added to further flesh her out but the base of her character remains the same. Classical music is her life and she's played professionally as soon as she could; praised and admired almost all of her life (by her instructor and her fellows), she's a goddess with the violin. She's playful, confident with the skills to back it up, and guards her true feelings behind easy smiles only the ones closest to her can pick apart.

Some Kafka facts:

She's most definitely a media sweetheart. Her practiced elegance and distinct fashion style make her look very Cool, and it's an image she's carefully built brick by brick!

She lives in a condo with minimalist design, so it looks pretty empty despite her collections of records, musical instruments and mini libraries filled with books, music sheets and the likes. You can find an intricate, pretty vase in almost every room.

Outside of music, she doesn't do commitment. She sucks at it, hates feeling "hindered" and is often preoccupied by someone something else anyway. Hookups and FWB are more her style. She’s had like one serious relationship up until the present time.

As a teen, she was pretty rebellious. Though rigorous when it comes to the violin, she was never above skipping a day or two of class to have some fun and almost always dragged R along whether they thought it was a good idea or not. As an adult, she still enjoys the thrill but is much more calculated due to being under the spotlight most days.

She’s always heard humming! Though singing’s not her thing, she’s constantly humming her favourite orchestras, pieces she’s currently learning or just songs that she likes.

Heavy smoker, especially when she’s feeling some type of way.

She has no living relatives.

She harbours some repressed anger that she’s never fully healed from until the present time. That explains a lot of her defense mechanisms and current guarded behaviour.

She wears her sunglasses when she wants to hide.

Her closest relationships are: Blade, Acheron and Black Swan.

She meets Blade sometime after college and offers him a job as her personal driver. He understands her needs implicitly and she deciphers his moods just as easily. He’s the one who takes care of her when she drinks too much or needs to clear her head with a long drive. Sometimes, shared silence is enough. Kafka and Acheswan have been friends since high school and have stayed friends throughout adulthood. The three of them grew closer right after R moved away.

╰┈➤ Reader

Because this is still an x reader AU, they don’t have a specific appearance. All of their specificities lie in their character. R is an excellent pianist despite their traitorous mind convincing them otherwise, they genuinely have a passion for the piano and classical music as a whole so they’re very knowledgeable when it comes to it. They currently work at a record store alongside Serval and make music for themselves that others happen to enjoy. They’re an overthinker and tend to diminish the place they take up in people’s lives but they’re also very sweet, reserved and thoughtful.

Some R facts:

They’re a terrible liar. It’ll show on their face whenever they’re bothered by something, or they’ll have little tells like fidgeting or avoiding eye contact.

Funnily enough, they were the most direct one out of the two as teens. R had no issue calling Kafka beautiful on concert night or holding her hand unprompted as they walked to the bus stop. While she hid behind shitty humour and sarcasm, they were more open in their affection. It’s a little more complicated in the present time, as they have to relearn each other with their respective baggage.

Elio's berating is the reason why R starts hiding things from Kafka and their other friends. As a teen they keep more secrets from her than she thinks, it's something she'll come to realize in the present time.

R moves away for a couple of reasons; their parents consider moving due to having to take care of chronically ill relatives but that decision isn't cemented until R tells them that they're okay with it. By the time they make this decision they've let their dwindling passion for the piano, years of Elio's expectations and their own insecurities take up so much space in their mind that they simply don't believe they're needed anymore. They couldn't do it anymore, look at Kafka and be reminded of how insignificant they were. They don't inform her simply out of cowardice. At 16 they were going through so much that they just believed leaving was for the best.

They have a little sister! She's 14 years younger than they are, so she was 2 when their family moved away. In the present time she's 14!

R sings! Not professionally or anything, but their singing voice is (one of) someone's favourite sounds.

They live in the one bedroom apartment right above the record store. It's cozy and seems packed at first glance, complete opposite from Kafka's home. There are music sheets and drawings from when their sister was younger on the fridge, pictures framed on the walls, old posters of bands they still love in their bedroom, etc.

Their closest relations are: Serval, Acheron and Swan

Serval and R met at the record store, where she already worked at before they were employed there. R is often invited to her band's performances, and they grew close from working together so often (outside of the owner, they're the only two employees in the store.) They're here for each other as they both go through these ridiculous homoromantic situationships... Acheswan are high school friends and once KFR reconnects, so do R and our fav purple ladies. They're closest to Acheron.

TIMELINE ♫

╰┈➤ KFR are the same age and meet at 8 years old. They grow together under the same instructor, Elio. They go to the same school and don't live that far off from each other, only one bus ride away.

At 14 years old, in high school, KFR befriend Acheron and Black Swan who have just started dating. They're high school sweethearts!

At 16 years old, the Bus Breakup happens and R moves away. Kafka's left to finish the rest of the school year with Acheswan and throws herself into her music/goals to cope with R's sudden absence.

Kafka starts to get recognition in the classical music world in college, but more so in the years that follow. At 23, she's already pretty known as a violinist prodigy. Also the year she meets Bladie!

Around a decade after they last saw each other, at 28 years old, KFR meets again in the vintage record store R works at. When I say "present time" I'm referring to their first meeting and on.

KFR officially get together about a year later, at 29 years old.

SOME FUN STUFF!

DRABBLES

╰┈➤ I've written a few short drabbles for specific moments of KFR's lives together that particularly spoke to me. I intend to write more whenever I feel inspired, and you're all welcome to pitch in as well !

🎼 Bus Breakup

🎼 Record Store Shitshow

🎼 Random KFR drabble

HEADCANONS ♫

(more like fun facts since I decide what's canon...)

╰┈➤ These aren't in chronological order because that would take me an insane amount of time to figure out. As always, if anyone wants me to elaborate on any of these they can always send me an ask :)

R has natural perfect pitch while Kafka's worked hard to hone hers. In the present time, she’s much better than they are due to playing consistently and professionally.

Kafka picked up smoking in college to alleviate her stress. Very bad habit that she can’t seem to stop.

Kafka has tattoos! I don’t care, she at least has a spine tattoo. Her and R probably get matching ones at some point, much smaller though. I’m thinking particular music notes.

R eventually comes to own the record store they work at.

Kafka’s very close with R’s family. They hang out without R often. Their sister loves her and they've had a few spa days.

R’s dog tag is from a grandparent that passed away. It’s sort of a way for them to remember to keep their loved ones close. I can see Kaf gifting them one with a date engraved on the back.

Kafka’s tried her hand at composition but the one she’s been working on and off on for years is still unfinished.

Once KFR gets together, they're always touching in some way. One of them toying with the other's fingers is a common occurrence.

R still has the drawing their 8 year old self made with Kafka somewhere in their teenage bedroom. They've also held on some specific annotated music sheets/partitions that they've worked on with Kafka when they were in the school orchestra.

Kafka and Serval have a funny relationship; Serval loves to get on Kafka's nerves because she's a rich snob and Kafka's always a fan of getting even. The passive aggressiveness between them is off the charts, but they can also be found giggling together when drunk. They'll deny it wholeheartedly.

R and Himeko are friends! They go to the same coffee place almost every day and see each other often but work in very different fields.

Serval and Cocolia have something weird going on. They've been friends who kiss sometimes since college and now they have different career paths that add some distance between them but they still want each other but Cocolia tends to prioritize her work and Serval feels she doesn't care as much anymore and--- it's complicated. Bronya doesn't exist at this point in the AU, but she likely will in the future.

R's followed some of Kafka's success on social media for a few years before they met again. Kafka has a little fanbase!

R sells their personal collection of the records they make at the store. When Kafka gets wind of it, she makes sure to have a copy of each (mostly by having Blade buy them from people’s hands…) and keeps the records at home. That’s before they get together.

R plays the piano for Kafka for the time the morning after they sleep together hehehe.

R confesses to Kafka about Elio's mistreatment after Swan convinces them to. I would say it’s the biggest chance Kafka has to make them understand that she wants them at her side.

Swan was the pretty but kinda weird girl in high school who was very into palm reading and tarot cards. Acheron was probably on the track team or something. Super sweet but reserved.

Kafka and Acheswan see each other pretty often. They have brunch.

Acheron studied philosophy in college.

Acheron mostly taught Kafka how to do her makeup as teens.

Swan has always been able to see through Kafka's bullshit and defense mechanisms.

When they were in high school, R’s house was the designated hang out spot for the 4 of them. At school they had classroom 311B which was often vacant so they hung out there most of the time.

KFR's confession happens in R's teenage bedroom after a family dinner. Sev and I already have the whole thing planned out...

Their bus number, 607, means “I miss you” in pager code! I thought I was being clever when I chose it lol. It’s kind of the official title me thinks.

CONTRIBUTIONS!

╰┈➤ KFR PLAYLIST MADE BY @blinkinn <3

Very grateful and giddy about this one because I still can’t believe my brainrot has inspired someone to make a playlist out of it. It’s full of angst, as it should be, so I’m very happy. I’m still adding on songs that make me think of them and have some instrumentals/violin sonatas that I need to add as well, and I'm always taking anon suggestions for songs y'all think would fit them <3

╰┈➤ KFR PINTEREST BOARD

This pinterest board is unfinished but is essentially meant to be a progression of KFR’s childhood to adulthood. It was supposed to start off representing childhood carefreeness and nostalgia then progresses into their angsty teenage years, their separate lives, all to come back to the time they meet again well into adulthood. However, the board is structured from most recent to older years, so the oldest memories are at the bottom.

Thank you to all my anons and Sev for brainrotting with me, this AU is getting kind of big now and I’m really happy about it. I’ll add more info to this post periodically, I think about it often and I’ve likely forgotten some stuff that has been mentioned to me before so it’s a work in progress!!! Hope more people enjoy what we’ve all made together <3

[ambros1an]

firefly x reader / what tethers my fate

warnings: gn reader, reader is TB but not stelle/caelus, angst, HEAVY PENACONY SPOILERS, implied nonbinary firefly

summary: “how can you love me? you don’t know anything about me.”

a/n: firefly’s dangerous side needs to be talked about more!!

They say captive fireflies only live three days, and so she was released to the world. Yet, you knew her for less than that. Still, your heart raced nonetheless upon seeing them.

“I love you.”

The Firefly you knew lead you by hand. How fitting that they also held you in the palm of their hand. The ‘normal girl’ had not only set ablaze the world, but your heart.

“How can you love me? You don’t know anything about me. I used you.”

“But you tried to save me all the same.“

“But I lied to you! This whole time I’ve been misleading you, showing you a version of me that doesn’t exist.”

“Was ‘trying to save me eleven times’ a lie too?”

Firefly remains silent. Of course you’d remember that. The way SAM kept his eyes on you the whole time in the dreamscape, ignoring everyone else. The way he headed straight to you. Keeping that galaxy ranger and Memokeeper away from you. As if you were the only thing that mattered. As if you were the spark that lit her namesake.

“I do know you. You’re Sam, but also Firefly. You try your best even when things are futile. You told me that Elio said that ‘destiny cannot be changed’ but you tried anyway. Thank you.”

Firefly looks down at the ground, clenching her fists. “To you. As SAM I kill indiscriminately. I haven’t felt bad once.” Their teeth bite their lips, eyebrows furrowed. She’s furious.

Haven’t felt bad? She’s so tense that a touch could send them running.

You shake your head, “I don’t believe that. You tried to save me, because if I died, you would’ve blamed yourself.”

Firefly says nothing. She unclenches her fist and sighs. “With you, I could be normal, whatever I wanted.”

“You can still be ‘normal,” you hold your hand out to her, but not to touch her, “whatever you want.”

They look down at your hand. Her eyes darting around the skin of your palm as if she was remembering everything that happened before. When she was just a normal person acting as a ‘stowaway.’ Holding your hand. How would that feel again?

Before she realizes it, her hand grabs into yours. Nearly crushing it in her grip. Everything they touch turn to ash, but yet you remain. Still here through everything.

“Everyone else looks through me, why couldn’t you.” They give a half-hearted chuckle. Firefly’s eyes are locked with the ground, as if stuck in the past. Through SAM, entropy, the Stellaron hunters-

“Hey.”

…and finally you. With a ridiculous amount of strength, Firefly quickly has your head in her grasp, placing her lips upon yours. But contrary to her strength her lips are gentle. They caress yours so delicately, that you can feel their plushness. Just like that, she pulls away, flushed and staring up at you. Her eyes are narrowed as if challenging you.

“You still feel that way about me?” She stares you down, but the flushness of her cheeks combined with her twirling her hair around her finger betray her nervousness.

“I-yes.”

“That’s good.”

Shutting people up was a normal part of her job, but this was the first time she’s done it without blood. A kiss. She liked that.

[kii-nami]

GILDED DREAMS | SUNDAY

You do not protest the clear display of authority over the most minuscule of details. Maybe you don’t even care for things like that, maybe you even take pity on him for that fact. Whatever it is in the end, Sunday doesn’t know. Neither does he ask. Birds are born to foolishly oppose the safety of captivity, but some will walk into the cage willingly. For they believe it to be temporary. Sunday’s gloves are stained with your divine blood. Your name will be written in the holy scriptures by his own hand soon enough.

cw: 8.7k words; part two of three; previous part; fem!mc; nameless!mc; i'm not a hsr lore scholar; sunday get behind me i have a glock and nothing to lose except you;

Scars do not itch yet the longing for a fleeting taste of pain remains the same.

Kafka is a mysterious woman yet the one Sunday wishes not to figure out. She is better off as an unidentifiable object of speculation, even if she wishes to insert herself in his drifting existence with a persistence that could rival yours, yet the one Sunday could never appreciate. She is prodding and meddling, her presence is a noose and most days Sunday is too detached to even try to entertain the woman with her bothersome advances. Even if Elio has a plan – whatever it might be – that will grant Sunday what he wishes for by the end of his journey, no contract is enough for him to stoop so low as to play a jester.

And if Elio has a plan – a script, Firefly reminds carefully – that plan is sure far worse than any gilded dreams Sunday used to hold so dear. For if that plan includes being stranded on a spaceship in the middle of the vastness of nothing, Sunday cannot think of that script as sound. The ship is far too small for the three of them, Firefly’s anxious foot tapping on the metal floorboards just adds to the claustrophobic sensation that keeps creeping up his spine and ruffling the feathers of his newly mended wings.

It's been almost six months since that day, yet Sunday still keeps them tightly pressed against his back despite the better judgment that sounds awfully like Robin. They will never truly be his again until he figures himself out. And for that he needs to see you again. To pray to high heavens for your paths to cross once more just like you did the day he last saw you. Only Sunday knows not how to pray to anyone but Ena, he knows not how to begin living a life free of martyrdom, he knows not how to stop the mindless drifting amongst the shattered dreams and finally anchor himself in reality.

It's morbidly ironic, how with only spiders crawling amongst the scattered feathers, Sunday still dreams of ribbons that form the stairway to heaven.

“Kafka!” Firefly exclaims, a little breathless. The tapping stops and Sunday now has nothing to focus on to stop himself from disassociating.

The woman lifts her gaze from the screen of her phone, unbothered and unreadable, “Yes, my dear?”

Finger pointing at the blinking red dot on the navigation panel, Firefly seems hopeful for the first time since the engine of the spacecraft shut down with no warning, “There’s a ship nearby.”

Kafka’s reply is drowning in the drumming of Sunday’s heartbeat. Whatever she says is not and never will be important. It’s his journey towards freedom and the gilded birdcage of his dreams is crawling with venomous spiders and moths that disguise themselves as fireflies. He wishes not to make friends with the insects but to get rid of them, so he can finally break the golden bars and reach the paradise he yearns for. The red dot keeps blinking. Uncharacteristically for him, Sunday hides his hands in the pockets of his coat. He would rather not soil the wings made of saint’s touch with the sin he is yet to wash away.

“Are you with us, Angel Wings?” Kafka taps Sunday on the shoulder, the angry involuntary twitch of his wings gives away his disdain even if his expression remains neutrally apathetic. She laughs, it’s the screeching of nails against the coffin of his sanity. Or whatever is left of it. “We’re ready to make the jump for that ship. I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”

Sunday is not convinced; Kafka is prone to little white lies that benefit only her and that is not the way he wishes to live the life that could have been. Unfortunately, there is no way to leave unless it’s drifting forwards on the waves of time. Wherever this road leads to Sunday will have to figure it out as he goes. He can only hope that salvation awaits him on the shoreline.

Scars do not itch yet the phantom scent of a foreign god remains divine in the lungs of a sinner.

The movement is sudden; it disorients him and blinds him just as much as it takes away his hearing. For a split-second Sunday exists neither in reality nor in a dreamscape; simply stuck in between martyrdom and apostasy, he is rejected by the vastness of this universe, and it is the closest he comes to tasting freedom since the day he was born. Then his senses return to him just as suddenly as they abandoned him, and whatever suffering Elio scripted for Sunday to endure, it all may be worth it in the end.

“We mustn’t argue.” A little panicked and breathless, Sunday hears you before he sees you. Drowning in the starlight of the open space, the halo of your divinity shines twice as bright as it did under the sky of Penacony. You cannot imprison holiness in a cage of sin, and only after tasting both freedom and shackles can one realize that.

You’re too busy with pacifying the red-haired woman – Himeko, if his memory is yet to fail him – to notice Sunday hiding behind the shadows of Kafka and Firefly. Himeko is very uncharacteristically upfront about her disdain for Kafka’s unpleasant presence, and as much as he wishes to express his agreement, Sunday is sure his opinion would never be appreciated by the likes of your so-called family.

“I’m going to shove that ship up her–” Himeko’s sharp gaze is digging rusted nails into Kafka’s mortal body, crucifying her with just words alone.

Your palm pressed against Himeko’s red lips silences all blasphemy and prevents immediate bloodshed. “Miss Himeko, please!”

You tug her backwards. Kafka laughs, her amusement hidden by the purple fabric of her gloves. Whether she finds Himeko’s emotional distress funny or it’s your futile efforts to subdue her rage that Kafka finds entertaining remains unclear, neither does Sunday wish to figure it out.

“No, let her continue.” There’s a change to Kafka’s tone, a subtle shift to the way she pronounces her vowels that an ordinary person wouldn’t have noticed. Yet Sunday has spent months with nothing but the buzz of the flies caught in Kafka’s spiderweb, and despite his better judgment and the constant detachment of his soul from his mortal body, he notices. She was his only constant companion, the one he had to guard himself from; Sunday would have been a fool to not study her to protect himself. “It’s awfully entertaining to watch such a composed woman lose her cool.”

You shake your head, disappointed yet not surprised even in the slightest, merely chastising the older woman for her immature behavior, “Please do not instigate.”

Kafka swipes the scolding under the rug, dismissing your words as if they were never said in the first place. Simply pets your head, two gentle ruffles of your hair, and then leans closer to Himeko’s face. “I see you missed me dearly, Himeko.”

“Die in a ditch.” Himeko spits, stepping aside and almost shoving Kafka to the side in the most graceful of manners one can muster without seeming excessively aggressive. Then she embraces Firefly as if she was her own daughter. It startles both Sunday and Firefly herself, yet the barrage of questions from Himeko doesn’t let the girl settle into her embarrassment. “Hello, my dear. How have you been? You–”

Murata Himeko has little to no composure when it comes to Kafka’s antics, and it almost makes Sunday feel invested. It is almost enough to anchor him in the raging waters of the endless sea, yet it is still not enough, and he is still guided by the glow of the lighthouse at the faraway shoreline. If he addresses you directly, will you respond or would you dismiss him the way Himeko does Kafka, now that he’s bound to the Slave of Fate with a little ink and a lot of blood? Or would you disregard the chasm separating the two of you and reach for a fleeting friendly touch?

Have you prayed for your paths to cross again or have you forgotten your own words now that he is not your heavenly burden to carry? Sunday would never find out unless he acts on his selfish desires, and selfishness cannot exist in a dream he is still so reluctant to let go.

Kafka clears her throat. It’s a warning for Sunday to return from the gloom of his thoughts, yet the stars illuminate your hair with the shade of blood you spilled to escape the Dreamscape. Sunday is here yet he is never present enough to not get lost in the glow of your nimbus. The ribbons sway with every twitch of your fingers.

“Oh, and who is…” Himeko’s breath gets caught in her throat just as his hazy vision meets her eyes. “That?”

Her pleased expression sours in the blink of an eye, the curve of her lips forming a frown of disgust. She fixes herself just as fast, yet it is enough for everyone to realize where she stands when it comes to him. The winds pick up speed and the raging waves carry Sunday farther away from his destination. Maybe he is not destined to reach the shores of paradise in the first place, simply born to die as a sinner masquerading as a martyr. Maybe he has not found a place where he can finally drop an anchor for a brief gulp of relief. Whatever the case, Sunday does not care.

He does not exist on the same plane mortals do. He is unreachable, untouchable, unknown. Godhood slipped through his fingers like sand, and now he has nothing to offer to the world other than his own suffering. Strike him through his palms and he will not waver. Strike him through his feet and he will remain standing. Strike him to the chest and he will come alive to die once more. Take him apart like a decaying canvas and he will remain scattered thread, floating in the angry winds with no place to settle.

Heavy lungs and drumming heart, breathing seems like an impossible task under the incriminating stare of a woman who knows not of him beyond the vessel of Ena’s order. His lungs expand, no air fills the emptiness. The contract means nothing if he takes his final breath before reaching the shore.

Flashing lights and a pool of glittering blood that soaks the pristine whiteness of silk, something burns him in a way that reminds him of who he truly is. And when Sunday can finally take a proper breath, you look up at him with the expectant gaze, a fragile shield protecting him from the impending doom inflicted by his own two hands.

“Mister Sunday.” Your voice is scorching, your smile is blinding. Sunday wishes to die in the warm sands of your divine presence, buried under the weight of heavenly light. “It seems my prayers reached the heavens.” One glove. Then the next. Your skin is as smooth as the day his lips tasted it for the first time, the sweetness of heaven soiled by the salt of blood and the bitterness of tears. “It is very nice to see you again.”

If you are lying for his sake, Sunday would never know. If you are being sincere, it would bring him to his knees in a desperate attempt to atone for the sin of creating false idols. Yet he knows who you are, he knows your routine and your habits; your only selfless wish and the fears you hide by the foreign tongue he cannot comprehend. Something burns in his throat. Maybe it’s tears, maybe he has finally reached his end and is choking on the sinful blood of his decaying body. He is leaning into your sunlight all the same.

“He kidnapped you.” The accusation is not unfounded.

You dismiss it like it is, “I wouldn’t call it kidnapping.” A little wave of your left hand, the palm of your right is still gently trembling in the grasp of Sunday’s selfish fingers. “More like a vacation.”

You aren’t taken seriously. It seems to be a recurring thing, from how effortlessly your faux indifference is taken at face value. Sunday wants to speak; to play the shield you so bravely act as to protect his rotting flesh, yet all his voice is lost, and he is yet to find perch on the branches of the forbidden tree. The knowledge is all out in the open for his disposal, yet the wounded raven is yet to accept it as the truth of this world, soaring above the green leaves, shamefully nibbling on the fruit that will inevitably take him straight to hell.

Himeko stares you down, you don’t have the guts to stare back at the woman whom you owe your life to. Simply shakily stand your fragile ground, a cracked glass screen separating life and death. Himeko does not condemn you; it is Sunday she does not trust, and he cannot blame her for doing so. Yet some selfishly irksome part of him deems her reaction as unreasonable. She is not privy to your intricate bond; she knows not of suffering that binds you together, of the tears wasted and the ink spilled; she has no right to judge what she cannot understand. And puny humans like Murata Himeko cannot comprehend the extent of your relationship; every second of your suffering, every minute of his guilt, each of your thoughts unshared, each of his dreams unreachable.

Kafka’s laughter is poison, the succulent flesh of the fruit pushed inside his mouth against his will. Your nails dig into his palm, the blood does not spill yet the fear drips from Sunday’s palms as everyone is trying to find balance while the ground under their feet shakes, ready to split in two.

Sunday’s holds onto you like a life vest, the anchor dropped in the middle of the raging sea storm, the only lifeline that connects him to the reality of this miserable existence. Kafka chokes on her giggles as she almost trips over her own feet, the knockback of the sudden stop sending her toppling over. Himeko catches Firefly by the collar of her dress, pressing the girl close to her chest. The lights flicker in and out, yellow to blue, until red flashing lights overtake the hallway. Then everything shuts down.

It’s a painfully long second of silence with nothing but the heat of your body pressed tightly against his. And when the blood washes off the walls, it’s the glow of the open door and the disheveled pink haired girl and her trailblazing companion bursting though the yellow haze of artificial lights.

“What was that?!” The question is not meant to get an answer, and despite knowing it deep down, the girl with an odd name asks it all the same. “Dan Heng said the engine died.”

Irrationality is the heart of human nature; it is the thing that moves humanity forward and it is also what drags them down. Sunday cannot understand it, yet he is not completely against the notion. He, too, is only human, and your hand in his goes against any rational thinking of a devout believer.

“Himeko, what in the world is happening?” Annoyed and hissy voice, ruffled hair and a white robe barely held together by a little silk belt. The pink haired Foxian that snarled and bared her teeth at Sunday any chance she could back on Penacony, now looks like a displeased cat, lost in the unfamiliar environment. The impatient tapping of her foot, the flat heel of her fuzzy slipper softly knocking on the glossy floors.

Himeko says nothing. Just turns away, lips pressed tightly together. A glance she sends your way sends shivers down his spine, involuntary twitch of his wings sensing danger Sunday cannot combat with just the strength of his body alone. This time you look at her, the haunted darkness of your pupils keeps expanding and swallowing the light of the blushing sunsets Sunday is so enamored with.

“I don’t know.” Himeko finally states. Despite the finality of her words, it is clear as day that the woman knows very well. And with how she avoids your gaze now that she spoke, it is obvious you know even more. Nobody brings it up, even Kafka blinks in a solemn understanding that sometimes scripts don’t play in their favor. Satisfied with her play being accepted, Himeko continues with the second act, “But please put some clothes on, Shuhua.”

Shuhua huffs, a suspicious side eye thrown into your general direction. You seem to pay her no mind, too preoccupied with staring outside the window. Receiving no reaction, the Foxian turns on her heels and leaves the hallway with no hurry behind her steps. Himeko mumbles something under her breath and follows after Shuhua, arms folded over her chest and palpable tension to her every move.

As if sensing some invisible danger, Kafka steps away from the entrance and beckons Firefly to do the same. Slowly but surely, akin to two cautious animals, they hide themselves behind the corner of the hallway. It’s an oxymoron, truly, yet Sunday has no other way to describe the careful way in which Kafka – with all her predator glory – navigates the space. Precise and calculated, she wastes no time in exiting the hallway. Be it to torment Himeko some more or run away from whatever chill that is eating away at Sunday’s wings. Whatever the case, it’s just you, him and the young pink haired woman left standing in the dying light of faraway stars.

“Please step away from the window.” It’s a clear warning and Sunday heeds it, for all drifting souls follow the flow of the stream. March is way too anchored in her life to recognize the tremor of your voice for what it is.

You’re chewing on your bottom lip, unblinking gaze lost in the vastness of the open space. The alien pink hues swallow the darkness of cosmos and the glow of stars, dyeing the dim room with something sinister. March tugs on your sleeve, you don’t turn to look her way. The pinks turn into purples, the black holes of your eyes grow until only the void remains. The prayer falls from your lips like teardrops; some words muffled, some forever lost in the air to never reach his ears.

Faint footsteps are not the ones Sunday recognizes but he recalls seeing the young man, Dan Heng, on Penacony the day everything fell apart. He’s frowning, the tight line of his mouth trying to hide his distress. March seems relieved to see him, finger pointing at you with a quick shake of her head.

Dan Heng doesn’t read between the lines, simply waves his hand, “We caught another distress signal. Himeko ordered to regroup.”

March eagerly takes it as a chance to escape the suffocating tension, although she seems to be too hesitant to leave your side. One of the ribbons of your dress wrapped around her finger, she tugs on your clothing once more, yet you don’t move from your spot. Dan Heng seems annoyed by the delay, enough so he sends a dirty look Sunday’s way as a compensation for his wasted time.

“[Name], did you hear me?” Dan Heng takes one step closer. The purples turn into reds. March can’t find a spot to rest her eyes on, gaze darting from you to Dan Heng. The reds turn into pinks, then back into purples. The young man rests his hand on your shoulder. Purples darken into black. “We need to–”

“Move.” You snap, arms pushing March away from the glass just in time before the fog rejects the laws of this world, slipping through the thick layer of glass.

 The shrill volume of your voice is deafening but it’s not enough to scare away whatever it is that is floating in that fog. It latches into Dan Heng’s clothing, enveloping his fingers. The rapidly melting skin is falling down on the shiny floors like blackened ashes, piece by piece, layer by layer, until there is nothing but bone. And even then, the rot is not satisfied.

Dan Heng staggers backwards until his back hits the wall, mouth agape and eyes wide, shaky legs barely supporting his body. You quickly follow, trying to stabilize him, yet the best you can do is to help him slide down the wall slowly. His left arm is frantically trying to rip the rapidly deteriorating edges of his coat off yet to no avail, the fog swallows anything it touches far quicker than a human can move.

March calls out to you two, quickly crossing the little distance between you and sagging to her knees next to Dan Heng, trying to reach out to help him but you slap her hand away. “Don’t touch him!” You yell, so out of character for the calm and serene attitude Sunday is used to. Then you swallow, mouth seemingly dry, and when you speak next, it’s even softer and lighter than your usual tone, “Please step away, March. Don’t let the fog get near you.”

 Wide eyed, March is staring at you like she sees you for the first time in her life. Gods are gracious yet they are fair; Sunday knows better than anyone just how fair they can be. Yet this fairness from you must be something she had never seen before. Even Sunday himself, in that short time that he spent with your presence illuminating the nights of his loneliness, has not witnessed this side of you. Your refusal was gentle yet adamant, your dismissal was careful yet assured. Your harshness was nonexistent, for you were rejecting it like you do with everything in this life. Yet here you are, embracing it to save the life of the one you care about. It seems Sunday forgot he is not the only one lost in the river, praying to finally reach the lighthouse.

 “You never take me seriously.” You mutter dejectedly, eyes watery and fingers trembling.

“I’m sorry.” Dan Heng’s voice is almost gone, raspy and hoarse, heavy breathing never easing even when the fog starts thinning out under the glow of pinks and purples.

The ribbons of your dress float in the air; the ashes rise from the floor, twisting and turning into bleeding pieces of torn flesh and broken bone as his arm reconstructs itself slowly.  It’s unnatural, foreign to even witness, yet alone feel but Sunday knows the ache of mended bones. He knows the pain will never leave and will follow Dan Heng till his deathbed, a reminder of his wrongdoings. The sin of disobedience is hard to wash off, be it a prayer or holy water. Maybe the blood of a saint spilt on the foreign flesh can cure those phantom pains, yet no saint martyr would ever bleed for sinners like them.

The ode of resurrection is short-lived, yet the horrors the onlookers witnessed will remain there even when they close their eyes and fall into deep slumber. It will chase them like prey until it devours them alive. Sunday is used to a little misery, his dreams used to be his only salvation till they shattered like a birdcage caught in a hurricane; yet he is not sure how those who live to dream would deal with nightmares.

“What in hell is happening?” Shuhua’s blown amber eyes lost all the warmth of mild fire as she watches the final pieces of flesh reject their decay.

Too many people in this hallway for it to be safe. From Dan Heng to the two companions that came with her, to the black fog creeping near the window. Shuhua’s tail is wagging angrily from side to side. One of the men next to her – the infuriating Stoneheart, bless his audacity – seems to be as annoyed as she is. Although a bit more cautious and way less adventurous as he follows the woman when she steps closer to the black cloud, gloved palm all but ready to tug Shuhua back in case things go south.

As much as Sunday dislikes Aventurine, there is little point in his suffering now that it does not benefit the preservation of Ena’s eternal dream. Neither that nor your grief for the loss of a friend would bring Sunday any satisfaction. If anything, it would just force him further into the deep waters and the last thing he wants is to drown in despair before truly tasting freedom.

So he bows his head and rejects his ego, trying to be that very better brother that could stop all galaxies and freeze time just to let his sister descend the heavenly ladder. Even if the feat is not comparable and Sunday is a simple mortal who cannot perform miracles just yet, he can be a better man who would do good by others for you so at the end he could do so for himself.

The chill of the fog is caressing his back even from the distance Sunday assured is there. The irritation on Shuhua’s face when her investigation gets cut short could rival Sunday’s own disenchantment with the life he was forced into. Yet even if despised, Sunday stands for what he believes is right.

“I strongly advise you to not go near that fog.” It’s the first time in a long while that he addresses someone else. Prayers have been left behind in search of belief in himself and the conversations with Kafka are all one sided. There is no need to speak when Sunday has nothing to say, and it seems even if he does now, the audience is not willing to listen.

“I strongly advise you to stay the hell away from me, birdbrain.” Shuhua is prone to snarling and threats, yet it is very hard to take her seriously when even someone as fragile in body as Sunday himself could probably pick her up by the collar of her coat just to look at her face at eye level. He wishes not to pick any unnecessary fights, yet Shuhua seems to want to pick them all, “I will tear you apart.”

You sigh, it’s so heavy as if the weight of the universe rests on your delicate shoulders. “Please stop.”

Nobody truly listens. True to your previous words, no one takes you seriously. Your wishes have no substance, and your opinion is as translucent as air that they breathe in just to exhale the next moment. There is a brief, fleeting moment in which Sunday entertains the idea of the eternal dream once more. The ideal paradise in which people listen to you all the time and not just when it’s beneficial to them, yet he pushes it aside as soon as it blossoms in his mind with blood red petals. No wishes ever come true in gilded dreams and the only way to change reality is to take action here and now. There is very little Sunday can change, however, so the only thing he can do is stand his ground.

You walk past them right into the haze of the fog, Shuhua and Aventurine casting you a passing glance of confusion. Dan Heng, for as sickly pale as he is right now, is trying hurriedly to get up with March’s help. There must be something on Sunday’s face that gives away his doubt of the safety of your actions, as you smile wearily, “It’s alright. It can do me no harm.”

Sunday’s mind does not doubt the gospel, yet his heart is his worst enemy. Despite his worries, the dark cloud lightens in color: from black to purple, then to pink, and finally it thins out enough for only to pale mist to remain floating at the edges of the glass. The silence that falls is heavier than any burden a martyr could carry. Himeko joins you by the window, respectful distance from the pinkish whisps. She seems to be contemplating something, yet the options she has must be limited and choosing between two evils is never easy. Aventurine is peeking outside where the fog is still sick and dark, obscuring the starlight. Even the cyborg – one of the galaxy rangers that Sunday does not the name of – is searching for something behind the other side of the glass.

“I warned you to take another route.” You say finally. Shuhua is distressed, it’s barely noticeable, yet the twitch of her ears gives it all away. Himeko folds her arms over her chest, troubled expression reflecting on the surface of the glass. It’s evident nobody except you and her understands what you mean by that, yet for once you aren’t trying to include everyone in the conversation. It’s between you and the woman who seems to know way more about you than Sunday prides himself on knowing. “We got too close, and we got caught by the pollution.”

“Where the fudge are we anyway?” The cyborg taps the window, metal fingers thudding unpleasantly on the glass. This shirthole–”

“Mister Boothill.” You chastise lightly. “Language.”

“S’rry, birdie.” He chuckles awkwardly, slight embarrassment to his tone. “Where are we again?”

“My home planet.” Your words are the bloodstained nails, dropped by the executioner. The blood drips off them in thick droplets of divine nectar and falls to the floor, coating the room with the saccharine scent of the paradise lost.

“Huh?” There’s something peculiarly tense about the way Aventurine looks at you behind those glasses of his, yet Boothill’s astonishment saves you a lot of questions that you most likely do not wish to answer. “Ya fudgin’ breathe poison or somethin’?” You laugh, shaking your head lightheartedly at what could have been an oddly disrespectful question if not presented in such a standoffish way.

 “Not anymore.” You confirm, “The–” then your breath gets caught in your throat and your smile falls, replaced by a very familiar longing that Sunday grew accustomed to. Yet today is Thursday and on Thursdays you watch the stars. The regret and the tears are all saved for when the clock strikes midnight on the seventh day, and you get on your knees in a prayer hidden behind a foreign tongue. “Never mind. It’s a long, boring story that will put you all to sleep.”

“[Name]–” Himeko wants to say something; she clearly made up her mind and whatever decision she came up to burdens her way more than not listening to you when she had the chance.

Yet you, as per the path you are chained to, refuse to listen to whatever she has to say, “We do need to look into that distress signal.”

“Not unless we want to get turned into ashes.” Aventurine pipes in, a little teasing behind his otherwise serious tone, “I am not ready to get dusted just yet. No offense, [Name].”

Your smile is strained. It’s unnatural and forced yet Sunday is unsure whether others realize it, “I would never take offense in your finding the desire to live.” A well-meaning comment that is aimed to hit exactly where it hurts the most. Or maybe Sunday simply is too far deep in the waters of sin, so he projects his most evil onto the saints who deserve it not. Aventurine, however, does not contemplate your intentions, simply turns away from you as if burnt as it often happens when playing with fire. “Miss Himeko, if you may?”

Himeko nods wordlessly. You hide from the view with Boothill leaving right after when the awkwardness gets a bit too much for him. Sunday has half a mind to follow you but stops before he does something very much foolish. He needs to learn to pick his battles and regulate his wishes to control everything. For the very notion of control has always been his biggest enemy.

He who has no reign over his life desires to control everything, yet what he is supposed to do now that he has nothing to rule over? To control yourself is to control your own life, yet how does he find freedom when some of the choices he makes are still very much guided by someone else’s wishes masquerading as his own? Abandoning dreams meant abandoning order, yet somehow it still dictates his life all the same.

The lighthouse has never been farther away.

None of these people are tolerant of him, least of all fond of him, and without your presence this hallway once more turns into a cage. Maybe Kafka wasn’t as awful of a companion as he initially thought and her spiderweb acted as feather-like anchor to keep his mind from floating too far away from the shore. Maybe he is terrified of what could happen now that he has been stripped of power completely, matters not that the influence he used to have was all make believe.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, chicken boy.” Shuhua laughs, twitching ears and sharp teeth on display as a warning. “Nobody here likes you, but we aren’t going to kill you. Unless you accidentally fall into that fog and die.” She misinterprets Sunday’s silence, yet he is not sure whether she is truly capable of cold-blooded murder or simply playing it up for the sake of dispelling some tension.

The Stoneheart quirks his brow skeptically, “Do you really want a sob fest?”

For someone like Aventurine, everything in this life is all but a transaction. An eye for an eye. A favor received; a favor returned. It’s not about either of them but it’s about both of you. The idea of pushing Sunday into the man-devouring fog seems to be quite pleasant for him even if he is almost stopping the Foxian from murder just because Sunday stopped her from almost dying.

Scoffing, Shuhua points her finger at Sunday as if he’s not even there, “She’ll get over it and find another boytoy to fawn over in approximately five business days.”

The notion of you crying over his death is terrifyingly unsettling. There is no realm, be it the rivers of reality long past of the gilded cage of a dream yet to be, in which Sunday wishes for you to weep for him ever again. Neither does he wish to die before you. Or after you, for that matter. Yet dying together with your last breath caught by his lips seems like a beautiful way to end his existence.

But Shuhua, despite her never-ending hostility, is right and he doesn’t think a god would waste her last moments on the fleeting warmth of a dying sinner. Death is far too cruel to allow him to go peacefully. And so, Sunday locks any foolish thoughts behind the golden bars of a dream once more.

That is the only place where heresy belongs to.

The fog darkens, not even a sliver of starlight remains. In this darkness Sunday has trouble keeping himself afloat. The thorns drag him down to the bottom even if the hollow bones of his wings do not itch any longer.

To dream is to survive. To live is to suffer. To dream is to suffer. To live is to survive. No matter how one twists the words, the outcome is the same. Torment is unavoidable, misery is unescapable. Be it in a cage made of gold or in a life soaked in freedom, everyone suffers equally. Sunday is yet to accept that as a given, yet this anguish is probably the only thing you embrace with your torn heart. Maybe one of these days the stream will carry him to his destination, and he finally finds what he’s looking for.

Maybe for the first time in his life Sunday needs to take control of himself and not others.

 “You should come inside.”  A gentle hand on his shoulder. A tall woman – another galaxy ranger – smiles at him with a little something very tired to the curve of her lips. “They’re about to make the jump.”

Sunday stops himself from wondering what all those people are doing here. Their ship got stranded so the rest must have suffered the same fate. Everything happens for a reason, and Sunday has little to no desire to doubt anything right now. Not when that doubt could force the thorns up his body until he is crowned in them like a dying man crucified.

And so he nods, following after Acheron, “They started the engine?”

“No,” She shakes her head, the door in front of her opens automatically. “We’re breeching the atmosphere the old-fashioned way.”

Sunday has no clear idea what that entails, but the implications don’t seem very promising. Some sort of a mascot is running around the room, ushering everyone to get seated. Kafka is smiling, scooting ever so slightly closer to Himeko despite the other trying to get away from her. Firefly is rambling, March and the pesky Nameless to her right engaging her in a rather animated conversation. Boothill, Shuhua, and Aventurine seem to get along rather splendidly, considering their conflicting personalities.

The veiled Memokeeper pats the empty spot next to her in a silent invitation; Sunday knows it isn’t meant for him, so he takes a seat in the farthest corner of the couch and lets Acheron depart with no words exchanged. You are nowhere in sight. Sunday thinks that once again nobody takes you seriously even if they should. Dan Heng and an elderly man who Sunday hasn’t met before seem to be the only one to be at least a little bit troubled by the current predicament, vigilantly watching the door in case it opens.

It does not. Instead, the lights flicker rapidly, the ground shaking beneath his feet. Being sat is not enough.

Everything comes crashing down, and no seatbelts could save them from the heat of the fall through the corroding fog and the atmosphere unwelcoming to the outsiders. Someone more poetic would have called this the fall of god’s most beloved angel, Sunday knows that it is nothing more than a punishment for the sins one could never atone. Everything seems to be on fire, scorching and hostile. Sparks of light ignite outside the trembling glass windows. In the darkness of this nightmare, fate in the shape of glowing ribbons is kind enough to catch him right before Sunday slips off the couch.

The fall stops so abruptly that the train jumps upwards. The pinks and purples shimmer with the peculiar radiance, lighting up the shadows and ensuring a safe descend into the deepest circles where only the most heinous sinners could survive. That is not a place someone like you could be born in, yet it seems just right for Istanai the Repudiation.

“Is everyone okay?” Your voice is hoarse, and you look a bit worse for wear. Sweat running down your temple, you shiver. Someone says something, it gets lost in the raging waters of doubt. “I cleansed the engine as much as I could but it’s enough to make one jump far away from the fog.”

“Please be careful.” Himeko mumbles, the train shakes for the final time.

You smile, “Aren’t I always?” That smile is nothing more than a kiss to the cheek and 30 pieces of silver, yet somehow Sunday is sure that it is them who would end up weeping at the cross.

Perhaps even Himeko herself knows she is sending the lamb to the slaughter. With regrets and misty eyes, she presses her lips to your forehead. It’s a fleeting touch with nothing left of it by the time it ends, and you turn around first, leaving without even a goodbye. Stelle darts from her seat, ready to join in on another dangerous adventure, Dan Heng and March following suit until Himeko stops them, whispering something that makes March gasp audibly. Half astonished, half disappointed, she returns to her spot on the couch and drops down with a huff. If Sunday is sure of something, it’s that the lonely path you are bound to cannot offer you any constant companionship.

Kafka is watching him with that infuriating something behind the clouded haze of her eyes. Sunday hates letting her win; he despises being caught in the spiderweb of her schemes and convoluted plots written by a lunatic far worse than he, himself, is. Spending his whole life being conditioned to believe he is the one in control of the cage, Sunday has been chained to the golden bars of a tomb where they buried his freedom. Yet he is not a charmony dove in desperate need of someone looking after him, his clipped wings have long been mended and the disillusionment in a dream that cannot be is ringing in his ears in Robin’s trembling voice.

What would she do if she were in his shoes, Sunday wonders, although there is no real need to contemplate it at all. For someone like his sister – another victim of a mind far too cruel for this world – there is only one path in this life. You move towards freedom, even if it means getting caught up in the crossfire.

Kafka’s giggles die with as the distance grows. Sunday is lucky to catch you before you exit the train, yet he isn’t sure there is any more luck in his life left for you to change your mind.

Sunday isn’t fast enough to even voice his concerns before you shut him down, “I just need to check with the port security, and I will be back. One foot out, one foot in.”

“Then I shall accompany you.” How can one preserve a life without controlling it? How to change your mind when even the most drastic of measures will prove futile? If Sunday gets down on his knees and beg like a sinner would do before the heavenly lord, would you accept him then? Would telling the truth save him now that he has nothing more to his person than the wings that belong to you and the halo that he is willing to discard for your sake?

“As much as I would enjoy to go on adventure with you, Mister Sunday, I am afraid this is something I must do alone.” There’s an air of finality to your words. As if you gave up all your agency to fate and willingly chose to walk the road to your crucifixion with the shoulders carrying the weapon which inevitably will be used against you. Yet Sunday doesn’t want you to. If there is a way to share this burden, his hands are willing. If there is a way to unfasten the noose around your neck or to wipe the blood of your palms, he is ready to stain himself until everything is red. “Besides… Who will save me if I put you in danger with my own two hands?”

As usual, you make little to no sense. How can Sunday save you if he isn’t by your side? “Aeon or not, you mustn’t–”

Your palm against his cheek is warm. Thumb gliding over his skin, smearing crimson till nothing is left of his anguish. Only heartache remains; the realization that he cannot do anything but give up and let you walk outside the gilded cage of safety into the world which would never be kind to you even if you spill all your tears for it. He could not stop Robin and had to pay the price, and now with you Sunday will have to do the same. Control is never enough when you lack the power to reinforce it, the dreams are fleeting and fragile like the glass castles amongst the clouds. All Sunday can do is to believe that he will get there in time to gather your holy blood before the ground accepts it as a part of itself.

“To live is to survive.” He whispers, hopeless and sorrowful.

“To dream is to suffer.” You agree. A ruffle of your dress, the ribbons sway as you rise. Betrayal means nothing when the warmth of your lips against his cheek eradicates all vices and purifies all evil. “May the heavens be kind enough for the suffering to cease.”

The door silently closes. Sunday returns to the train cart. The shimmer of the ribbons is still glowing all around the room. The atmosphere is a bit too charged, Dan Heng and Himeko glaring at each other with various degrees of animosity. Kafka is grinning, although there is something tense to her smile that Sunday had no desire to investigate. Elio admitted he could not predict your future, so whatever script she has is probably nothing but a nonsensical piece of fiction written by a crazed lunatic.

“You know nothing.” Himeko snaps. It must not be a regular occurrence, as it earns her a couple of odd glances. “If she doesn’t contact us in five system hours, [Name] told us to leave her here.”

Sunday expected as much yet this being said out loud weights way heavier on his soul than he anticipated. Dan Heng, familiar with the aftermath of touching death firsthand, seems to share the sentiment, “You can’t do that! Himeko, what–”

“This is not my place to decide, and this is not your place to judge.” The woman cuts his sentence short, not at all content with your decision yet unable to refuse your final wish. “It’s [Name]’s choice. Her fate has found her. You should know that better than anyone, Dan Heng.”

This silences the young man way faster than Sunday anticipated. Dan Heng, oddly dejected and somewhat pained, ignores Himeko’s orders and returns to the couch. March’s comforting hand does little to soothe whatever turmoil he is going through and Himeko doesn’t hurry to apologize for hurting him. Kafka hums, a little perplexing noise, as she pets Himeko’s shoulder lightly. The red-haired woman has little strength now to refuse the spider’s advances now, face hidden in the palms of her hands.

Pompom quietly warns everyone to buckle up and the jump is way smoother this time around, yet nobody seems to be happy about the comfort. The quiet conversations and Firefly’s soft, somewhat awkward laughter fills in the void of passing hours. Scars do not itch yet old habits are hard to break, and Sunday is once again being dragged down to the bottom with the thorns of his deadly sin. One more hour, the glow of the ribbons dies along with the fog. Soon there would be nothing but darkness and the glitter of starlight illuminating the edges of the planet clouded in death.

“You seem awfully worried for someone you quite literally held hostage.” Shuhua’s voice is a fairway noise of the waves crashing against the pier. Sunday doesn’t mean to ignore her, yet he has no desire to engage her either. Pointless bickering has no merit unless both parties have something to prove. And Sunday has nothing to stand for right now. She is somewhat correct, and he is completely lost.

“Not as fun to bother now that you have nothing to hide.” Aventurine is the green glint of the precious stones scattered around the seabed. Laying amongst all those colorful rocks, Sunday lets them dig painfully into the base of his wings, till blood seeps through the open wounds. “Lame.”

“Cut him some slack, you two.” Black Swan says, a little teasing to her hushed voice, “He’s in the process of actively yearning.” Sunday wishes they would stop talking about him as if he isn’t present, yet he is not allowed to condemn them for sinning when his deeds are as unforgiving as they come.

 “Not like he knows anything about love beyond controlling the object of his obsession.” If a Memokeeper can get into Sunday’s head to pick his troubled feelings apart and put them together into some semblance of cohesion, the Stoneheart doubts the notion of Sunday having any emotions at all. It’s infuriating, yet it helps in a way. The waters may be deep, and the waves may be harsh, yet fury knows no hell like a lover scorned.

“I advise you to not speculate about my feelings.” The chill of his tone is familiar. “You might find out the true extent of their depth.”

For a second Sunday is back on Penacony, caged and buried, following orders and grasping for an ounce of control over his own actions through desperately trying to liberate those who could be saved. Would any of them try to save him? Robin would. Robin did. Now she’s somewhere out of reach, in the lighthouse Sunday can see yet can never find a way to. You would. You did. And now you are back to the dream shattered, unattainable and doomed.

Sunday has little to call his, yet his heart is worth fighting for.

Aventurine lifts his glasses, the grin on his lips is the one you would only find in hell, “Hit a nerve?” The tension increases, yet Sunday is not above playing dirty. They should know as much already. All is fair when you protect what you believe in, for the road to hell is paved with intentions most pure.

“Fifty thousand credits say you to shoot the chicken if he squares up.” Shuhua whispers, yet her voice is loud enough for everyone to hear.

Boothill clicks his tongue, “Make it a hundred, foxy. I ain’t lifting a forkin’ finger for some chump change.”

“Now now, let’s not fight.” Black Swan claps her hands to dispel some of that tension and it works. Somewhat. Sunday’s wings are still twitching under his coat, posture rigid and breathing shallow. Aventurine himself is way on guard for someone who is not ready to fight for his life, yet he is the one to throw in the towel. “We might need our knights to rescue the damsel in distress.”

“Talking about distress.” Acheron inserts herself into the situation with a surprising ease, surely not in the mood to mediate any immature conflicts yet very much willing to remind of the reason they’re all here in the first place. “It’s been four hours, Himeko.”

“I know.” Himeko nods, her expression as hazy as the fog outside this room.

Kafka huffs, amused and ready to stir the conversation where she wants it to go, “When I left you the kids, I thought you would keep them safe, Himeko. Look at you now…”

Himeko, for all her detachment now that she’s haunted by her own choices, seems to be finally ready to physically fight Kafka this time around. Her anger is short lived. And everything after that is nonexistent. It all ends here where it all began.

“Guys.” March gasps, palms pressed against the glass window. “No, guys, look.”

Stelle joins her by the window, but the others ignore her excitement as they did ten times prior to this. Yet judging by how the curve of Stelle’s lips drops suddenly, this time around they should have paid attention.

The blinding light is promised to lead all mortals to salvation of Paradise. With the scorching warmth of hell’s fire on his face, Sunday is sure that he is never destined to find the shores of redemption. The train is shaking with the aftershocks of the end of the world as they knew it. His fate is sealed with an explosion and the debris drifting into the open space, colliding with each other in a promise to never meet again.

In the eyes of Murata Himeko, Sunday can recognize the guilt which is dripping from his heavy lashes every time he brings himself down on his knees in a prayer. To live is to survive. To dream is to suffer. Paradise of eternal happiness cannot exist, for it is nothing but a pipedream of a man gone mad.

For once in the short time that he knew her, Kafka is silent. Sunday takes that silence with him into the darkness that envelopes all creation.

The curtain falls, yet as the lights go out the gilded dreams live on.

Scars do not itch yet the memory of a dream yet to be dreamt is the only proof of your existence.

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

“There’s no need to apologise,” Oliver tells him - when what he really wants to say is I’m here, I’m listening: please don’t suffer alone.

INTERMEZZO

A thunderous deluge batters their East Village brownstone when Oliver jolts into fitful consciousness; the red, flashing numbers of their digital alarm clock reading 2:27 a.m once he knuckles the grit from his swollen eyelids. Next to him, the mattress is empty - crumpled sheets already cool to the touch - but levering up on his elbow he casts about for his missing maestro: breathing a sigh of relief as he eventually spots him; limned by the bright neon awning directly opposite the casement windows.

“Elio…” he murmurs, instantly wary of his stiff demeanour.

He’s donned the teal-green Oxford Oliver wore to dinner - alongside a pair of loose, cotton boxers - but the shocking contrast to his ashen skin is deeply concerning as he haltingly turns towards him. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” 

Elio blinks - hollow and haunted - his pulse thrumming rapidly at his neck. “Couldn’t sleep,” he repeats, fingers drumming an abstract rhythm where they rest on the wooden sill. “Désolé… I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“There’s no need to apologise,” Oliver tells him - when what he really wants to say is I’m here, I’m listening: please don’t suffer alone.

An ugly gravity tugs at his chest, and Elio looks both torn and devastated as he bites his bottom lip; shivering - in part - from the harsh, December air. It’s a bit like being trapped underwater - the numbing helplessness that shrouds their moonlit apartment - but the news of Samuel’s hospitalisation was a bolt from the blue, and they’ve each been a bundle of nerves since their harrowing phone call with Annella.  

“Come to bed, huh?” Oliver urges, smoothing the covers in gentle invitation. “Your goosebumps will get goosebumps by that draughty pane.” 

It’s a simple enough suggestion - though evidently the straw that breaks the camel’s back - and Oliver curses the cruelty of the human condition when Elio sobs like it’s torn out of him; crossing the Rubicon in three loping strides to throw himself into his arms.

“I’m scared…” he gasps, chestnut curls tickling his nose as a car horn blares on the street outside. “My dad, Oliver -”

“- is strong as an ox,” he reassures quickly, kneading the bunched-tight muscles of Elio’s heaving shoulders, attempting to warm him up. “With access to some of the best doctors Europe has to offer.” The Policlinico di Milano is indeed a lauded institution. “You’re mom and Mafalda are with him right now, and there’s a direct flight to Malpensa leaving at noon.” Oliver swallows hard; reluctant to name the nebulous dread swirling beneath his ribs. “No matter the diagnosis, we’ll get through this, yeah?”

“But what if it’s serious?” Elio asks plaintively. “What if he doesn’t?”

A beat.

“Then we’ll find a way to get through that too,” he swears: much the same as they’ve weathered every storm these past sixteen years. “Together.”

“Together,” Elio repeats - voice devoid of all emotion - and Oliver makes sure to hold him even closer; whispering words of broken comfort amidst the gut-wrenching tears that follow. 

Notes:

Sorry. I know this isn't my usual festive fare, but I wrote this back in the summer when things weren't so great, and just rediscovered it on my hard drive. I'll get something lighter up for New Years, promise ❤️

[cowbok]

We Are Monsters Now.

(Its not everyday that i write something but enjoy this One-Shoot about Catnap and Dogday!)

Theodore was a timid child. Soft spoken, introverted, and quiet most of the times. But that was in the past, three years before he was transformed into this... Monster.

This creature, this... Thing. The adults working around the daycare that were unnaware of the inhumane experiments, they thought he was nothing but some kind of animatronic for the children.

The children thought he was the real Catnap from the TV show.

But he wasn't. He was Theo. He was once a human being, until the day all that changed, when he went asleep, the most deep sleep he ever got... And woke up like this... Monster.

He was kind of lucky, tho... That he didn't undergo all this pain alone. Some of his friends had suffered the same destinies, waking up in the new bodies, as big creatures that were meant to entretain and obey.

.... That's not really lucky.

But he'll be lying if he said he wasn't at least a bit glad he wasn't all alone in this... Elio, and the rest of his friends were now the... "Smiling Critters".

Still, that didn't mean he wasn't angry. Even with the company of his friends. He tend to act out. To try numerous time to escape. To try to hurt the scientists when they came to analize him

To try to have contact with beings he shouldn't have.

And, of course, all that fighting always got him in trouble. Cruel punishments of isolation. Like right now.

One of the scientist had found out that Theo tried to break in the labs in search of his... God. For his insolence, now he was being punished by not having dinner, by being a prisoner in that little cell.

And soon, by the one and only Leith Pierre who seemed... Upset.

- You are such a pain... - He said while standing outside of the cell. Protected from the ire of Theo. Using a gas mask, of course. He wasn't and idiot. - Do you have any idea of what you have done today... It could have been the end of us all - He explained, slowly.

Theo just growled. Even if his voice box was broken, he had nothing to say to that man.

- Gather yourself, 1188. You're no longer a little kid. You should understand now that actions have consecuences. - Pierre exhaled, and snapped his fingers.

Two more men appeared from behind him, using masks as well, and rods between their hands. Blue and yellow sparks escaped from the tip of the rods. They were going to electrocute him... How... funny.

- Maybe after you get a dosage of discipline, you'll start listening to the scientists and be a good Catnap for the children, won't you?

The two men opened the door, pointing the rods at Theo at every moment in case he tried to do something risky. They closed the door behind them and got closer, and closer.

Theo hissed and growled. His tail moving rapidly.

And suddenly, there was a scream. But it wasn't from Theodore.

But from Pierre.

- GET THIS MONSTER AWAY FROM ME-EE!! - Barely could talk as Elio was holding his throat between his orange hands

- YOU DON'T GET TO HURT HIM, YOU DON'T GET TO- - Elio tried. But he couldn't bring himself to actually press hard enough to choke Pierre.

- DOGDAY! STOP IT!! - Said one of the scientists still inside Theo's cell, rushing to get the door open while the second one still pointed at Theo with the rod.

- KILL HIM, KILL HIM!!! - Theo cried out loud. This was it, this was his chance of escaping!

If Elio killed Pierre, then they could use his key to get anywhere in the factory. They could free everybody, they could run away, they could...

Elio still wouldn't press Pierre's thoart hard enough... His hands were trembling, and he seemed stuck in one place, almost like if he was shocked with the heaviness of the situation.

It was too late. The scientist manage to open the cell door and hitted Elio with their rod, sending a wave of electricity throught his body.

His yellowish, dog-like body hit the ground, now unconsious.

The scientist helped Pierre to get up.

- Goodness gracious... You're not only a burden, you also have started to corrupt the other as well? -He said, looking at Theo. - Dogday had never acted out like this before!

Theo wasn't paying to much attention. He just felt his one chance fading away like nothing all because... Because...

- Get Dogday into a cell as well, now! - That was the last thing Pierre said before walking away.

The scientist called for some help to carry Elio's limp body into a cell. Then, decided to leave Theo alone for the rest of the night. Too much chaos now to keep going with the program.

Elio started to wake up. His cell next to Theo's.

- What... Happened? - He said slowly. Talking with the broken voice box was hard. But he wasn't going to let any scientist get close to him to fix it...

- I... I don't know... - Elio answered.

- You.... Didn't... Kill him

- No... I guess i didn't...

-.... - Theo didn't say anything. He just stared at Elio for a few seconds.

-... Oh. Well!! What did you wanted me to do?!?! I saw what they were about to do to you! i-i just acted out of instincs!! I didn't know what to do, alright?!

- You... Should have... Killed him

- Oh, really?! And for what?! What use would that have been?!

- We could... Have ESCAPED!

- WHAT'S THE POINT?!

The prison stayed silent for a long while. Elio had his head down, looking at the dirty floor, while Theo keep looking at him thourgh the bars with those withish, creppy eyes... Trying to understand.

- What.... What do you... Mean?

- Oh please, Theo! You really think we can escape?!?! That there's a chance?! We're not twelve anymore!! - Elio snapped back, standing up, walking as far away from Theodore as he could. - Grow up!

-.... What? - He whispered, and the light left his eyes.

- Alright, just think for a moment... Let's say we escape... What then? Do we go to the police? Us? A big purple cat and a yellow dog?! O-or maybe we first search for some mad scientist that's good of heart and knows how to give us human bodies first? Hmm? Does that seems like a plan?!

- Elio....

- Or perhaps we just survive out of trash for a few days until they send a searching party for us and when they capture us!!.... And they'll capture us... They'll just punish us horribly... - Elio turned to see Theo this time. -

The purple cat was holding the bars, his expression unreadable.

- Theo... Even if we escape... We'll never be truly free... We'll never get into highschool, o-or get a degree, or get to live a normal life... Look at us! We're monsters now... There's nothing for us out there... All we have is this place now

- No... - Theo mumbled, a dark liquid dripping from his eyes.

- The least we can do now is... Protect the other kids so they don't end up like us. - Elio sighed, sitting on the ground. - But, lets face it... We're both 15 now... It's been 3 years trapped inside this bodies... There's no turning back. We will never turn back...

"We are monsters, Theo. Let's face it'

[heartfullofleeches]

For all the yans who have to deal with loser reader. How would they feel if loser reader was...well themselves every other day of the year, but on their birthday they damn near worship the ground they walk on? I mean, it's still loser reader so they'd probably still complain about it but they do everything their yan/s say and generally treat them like royalty on their special day

Melon - Yanbot: The most normal about it. All they desire is to wear your clothes and sleep the day away with you. They ask you to accompany them to the grocery store so they can pick out a cake with your favorite flavor and other things they wish they could try, and watch you eat them. They're cheerful year round, but any praise and they'll be over the moon. Sets a countdown until their next "birthday" and replays the recording from that day every night until that day

Elio - Saint Yan: The second most more about it... On the surface. "OH, haha - you don't need to do all this for me. I'm more than happy just having you here...." That's a lie - on all plains but physical they're doing cartwheels." Drags you to stores they'd never go into on any other day and doesn't try on anything until they see your interest peaked. "H-hey Y/n.... What do you think of this choke- I mean collar. It's not for me - it's for my cousins dog! I'm just wearing it for reference.... But um - since it's my day and all... would you call me your good pet and let me fall asleep on your lap?"

Blythe - Yan Angel: The true most normal about it. She appreciates the kind words, but all this gal wants to do is play mini golf and go to as many buffets you can find and fill yourself up on before they kick you out. She's still buying you everything you see as is her sugar mama ways, but she cries, begging you on her knees to use your tickets to buy her a spider ring from whatever arcade you end up at

Tsundere Yan: Fucking finally. Sucks that shit up like a fine soup. Doesn't give a damn about your whining and insists you call them your dearest or they won't answer you at all. Cancels the huge gathering planned and raises their middle finger to whoever tries to complain or lessen their time with you under their will and thumb. If they aren't having your kid by the end of the night there will be riots.

Yan Demon Trio: "Birthday??" "Outta my way, losers." One is the only one with an actual birthday as they were once human. Sure the others were born, but they don't count the day as important. One is living that birthday hype up. They applied to every rewards deal they could find and you are joining them to get their free cake, ice cream, and useless nicknacks. They demain you bake them a cake despite the haul they carry home and devour all it first no matter how terrible it tastes. They honestly miss being human, but it's not all bad since they met you.

The others watch One and want their own free shit day too. As with them - they enjoy the treats but love whatever you give them more. They close out the day with their favorite activity/hobby, draining you completely dry - only you wear whatever they buy you. For One it's some high quality lingerie, Two enjoys those cow bikinis, Three wants you to be their cute bunny - but they get too attached to seeing with the ears and settles for just the suit honestly

[verrdure]

still here, still making things happen — would azure isle even run without ꒰ midori d'amore ꒱ ? the ꒰ twenty-five ꒱ year old ꒰ arts & crafts instructor ꒱ has been a part of the island’s rhythm for ꒰ two years ꒱, ensuring that everything flows just as effortlessly as it appears. you’ll find them at ꒰ le petit club ꒱, where they handle every detail with the kind of precision the island’s elite have come to rely on. they’re known for being ꒰ lethargic ꒱, always having their ꒰ decorated headphones ꒱ nearby — and spending time at ꒰ yūgure ꒱ to unwind after work.

ℬasics.

full name: midori d'amore. age: 25. birthday: july 21st. gender: cis woman [she/her]. orientation: pansexual. languages: english, italian, japanese. occupation: arts & crafts instructor @ le petit club. height: 5'4". hair: dark brown, waist length, straight, bangs. tattoos: four leaf clover on the inside of her right pointer finger + star behind her right ear + goldfish on her outer right ankle + smiley face over her left knee + small heart on her left shoulder. style: breezy & comfortable. colourful tights, flowy skirts, jorts in the summer, crop tops or xl t-shirts, worn sneakers or cute flats.

ℐnterview.

❛ how did you land a position on azure isle? connections, skill, or luck? ❜

“it starts,” midori says slowly, “with a love story.” she walks two fingers across the table, meeting the two fingers of her left hand, depicting two people bumping into each other. “papà, a chef at yūgure, and kāsan, a wealthy socialite on holiday with her family. could i make it any more obvious?” her fingers intertwine. “after they eloped and my mom was basically disowned, i was born. then twenty something years later i tried and failed to make it as an artist and eventually landed my current job after my dad put in a good word for me.” she retracts her hands then, dropping her chin onto her palm. “so to answer your question, a mix of connections and luck.”

❛ they say the staff see more than anyone else. what’s the most interesting thing you’ve observed? ❜

“i probably shouldn't be telling you this, but,” midori leans in conspiratorially, “there was this one kid one summer that i couldn't help but notice didn't look at all like his dad...  which could've meant nothing.  but i did look up that family after they left, and i happened to see this pic of the dad and his business partner. well... i just wonder if the dad's ever noticed how his kid and his business partner have the same nose.”

❛ if you could trade places with a guest for a day, what’s the first thing you’d do? ❜

“blow all my cash at the casino.” she mimes pulling the lever at the slot machine. “just kidding. i think i'd just take the entire day to relax by the beach. no responsibilities. no kids in sight. that's the dream.”

𝒮tory.

after three years of culinary study in japan, elio returns to monaco with a position in azure secured. when natsumi arrives on the island just a scant three months later, something in his heart beats to the tune of fate.

knowing that her parents would never approve of their relationship, natsumi does the one thing all selfish rich girls know how to do, she defies all orders and expectations and runs away. natsumi and elio elope. by the time natsumi's parents find out, it's already too late. out of anger or heartache or a mixture of both, natsumi's parents tell her never to return, that they'll no longer acknowledge they ever had a daughter. natsumi doubts, for the first time since meeting elio, she regrets; but not for long, not when she discovers she's pregnant.

midori is born in the height of summer. one set of grandparents welcome her in the hospital room. the other set have no idea she even exists.

she grows up happy and carefree and with dreams of taking the world by storm one stroke of her paintbrush at a time. reality is, of course, harsh as always. midori goes to art school, gets her art degree, and thinks any day now.

at twenty three, she sits in her childhood home and confesses to her parents that her dream might only ever be that, a dream. elio looks at the defeated set of his daughter's shoulders and tells her he'll help in whatever way she needs.

a month later she's taking a shuttle across the island to teach kids how to turn colourful scraps of paper into art. a legacy hire, someone says, when midori becomes an official part of the staff. she didn't have the heart to tell them she'd rather not have inherited this particular legacy.

ℋeadcanons.

naps are her lifeblood

does not have a pet but instead a flock of pigeons she regularly feeds and communes with :3

her signature item, her headphones, are decorated with stickers that she's had kids from le petit club put on for her<3

while midori's energy might seem a bit too low for someone who regularly interacts with kids, they actually dig her chill vibe + it helps that she's careful and patient with all of them

she can get kinda spacey sometimes. it does occasionally adversely affect her relationships 'cause she might disappear for like a month or two (will just straight up forget to respond to texts n she constantly screens calls...) only to come back with a casual 'hey wanna catch a movie today :3' like nothing happened. not everyone is okay with that</3

still paints. and paints often. first thing you see when you walk into her apartment is a bunch of art supplies just scattered on every surface. she also carries a sketchbook and coloured pencils around in her tote bag so you're likely to find her sketching away during her lunch break

𝒲anted 𝒞onnections.

click here!

[shadowcatzone]

Ok but like when the egg hatches Dan Heng calling to Blade (luckily Elio predicted this and sent him over early)

And the baby is so small?? They’re both floored. This child was inside of Dan Heng not too long ago?????

Blade reaching out to like. Poke their cheek. Kind of hesitantly, almost scared — likewhatifhismaraandthebloodonhishandstarnishesthem — and the baby just reaches up to wrap their tiny hand — so tiny!? — and it’s small enough to completely wrap around his finger.

And Blade buries his face in Dan Heng’s shoulder because his brain has crashed (again) and is in a constant state of ???????????????????????????

blade bluescreening is a popular idea, at least in my mind,

they're just going to stay home for a few days/weeks/months/years ok. They love their child so much. It's so cute. Aaaaah.

(Meanwhile Caelus might comment on the baby looking weird/ugly and dan heng will just. Try to throw him out of the express window (mid-voyage))

And also they will be devastated (affectionately) at every minor milestone their child makes. Baby opens their eyes? Starts making grabby hands at things they like? They start babbling? The two are over the moon and also treating it like the kid found the cure for cancer, like omg. You love your kid, we know.

Also for your consideration, at naptime: baby sleeping in dan hengs arms, dan heng sleeping in blades arms blade... sleeping... thanks to kafka, probably. I dont think the man can sleep. And all three of them under a blanket. (Bailu put the blanket on them, as a responsible big sister.)

[blank-house]

Who is the best at heating up a cold mc? I'm talking who drops everything for a snuggle, who gets them a jumper or who is shivering right along with them? lol thank you!

Percy

The warmest guy is Percy wheeze

Idk when and why I decided that he’s the walking heater out of everyone but he just radiates warmth. It’s why you’ll never see him bundle up even when it’s winter.

If you’re cold, he’ll open his arms and welcome you in his embrace. Pressing his fingers to your neck and sides, teasing you because “if you wanted my hands on you, just say so. You don’t need to make an excuse like ‘it’s too damn cold’ to get me close ;)”

But he would silently hope he’s helping you. He hugs you to his chest so that at least his tall frame can warm you up and protect you from the cold. He’d slip your hands in his pockets and cradle them, or bring them up to his lips so he can press a cheeky kiss before blowing warm air over your knuckles. He’d shrug off his jacket and drape it over you, the smallest of smiles on his face when he sees the relief on your face. Anything, he’ll do anything to keep you warm.

Hmm— it’s now coming back to me why I decided he’s the warmest. Shdhdehdd

Elio

Elio feels the chill more than the others do. It’s because he grew up in tropic weather so the New York cold isn’t something he’s accustomed to even after two years on campus. So he’s the one shivering with you lol

In the winter time, he’s not wearing his bucket hat. But a beanie or an earflap cap. He’ll have extra on hand along with thick coats and puffers that he’s more than happy to share if you need it. The penguin huddle is his favorite strategy and he’ll cling to your side hoping that together you guys can brave the weather.

If you guys are indoors and it’s still freezing because curse this building’s weak heater, then he’ll bring out the blankets. Elio is for sure the one asking for snuggles if you’re willing to give it :,)

With a quilt or three blankets over his shoulder, Elio would blink at you from under his hat. He’d pull a corner away from himself as an invitation and depending on how close or how long you’ve been dating he’ll ask “Do you want to share it with me?” with either the biggest grin or a shy smile.

Say yes, and he’ll cheer before diving to wrap you up with him. Shoulders and knees brushing, Elio would stay underneath the covers forever with you.

Jamie

Sjdjdheh he’s always running cold (even in the Spring or Summer his hands are cold to the touch) so I feel like he’s not the best at warming MC up— but that doesn’t mean he’s the worst.

Jamie would hesitate on keeping close since he’s not the warmest. But if you need a blanket he’ll acquire one, whether he already has one on hand or if he needs to buy it. Same thing with any jackets or sweaters you might want— he does own a lot of sweaters ^^

If those don’t help, well he certainly knows how to make warm batches of cookies. He’s got plenty of desserts and drinks that can warm you up on the inside. “Just a little longer. The madeleine are almost done and I’ve got a cup of cocoa for you too.”

He might not be able to warm you up himself, but Jamie would be damned if he can’t do anything about your state. Crank up the heaters if he must, put on the kettle, bake another batch! He’ll do what he can to keep you warm.

And if you’re dating… (skip if you don’t want to see what Jamie’s like yet)

“I know of other ways to keep your body warm.”

DJFHRHEHEHRHD words alone might have done the trick in raising your body temperature— UGH WIPE THAT SMUG GRIN OFF YOUR FACE PORTER— but he’s also a man of his word.

[strawbyarts]

I Have a Question:How would you imagine it would be The New Dream Child?

(In my Opnion,i Imagined a Little Boy called Elio Fitzherbert,is a character that i made for my Fic in AO3 called Tangled:7 years AU)

oooo tough question, but a good one!! i always struggle so bad with making ship children, i don’t know why. i absolutely love the name Elio though! it sounds like it must mean “the Sun” which feels so fitting for New Dream. what a genius pick!

physically, i can see brown hair, maybe hazel eyes, eugene’s nose, rapunzel’s big eyes and freckles. the kid must be super clever and creative with rapunzel and eugene as parents. rapunzel would finger paint with them plenty. eugene would read and tell stories to them so often. rapunzel would sing lullabies, and eugene could join in. ah, and i can see eugene often pushing their hair out of their face! even if their hair is short. i headcanon it’s because he’s grown a habit to do that to the people he loves closest to him since he’s done it to rapunzel so much. rapunzel would want to be the opposite of gothel, always letting their kid explore and awarding curiosity.

i can totally see their kid drawing or painting with mama raps one day and then running to show papa eugene with raps. its a picture of the three of them and eugene’s nose is all sorts of wonky but he’s like “you got my nose just right!”

thank you for asking!!

[coruscqte]

what is xiayu’s relationship with the stellaron hunters? how do they feel about her? i’d love to hear! ur thoughts are always intriguing :3

to preface this, while i do enjoy the hunters im not actually particularly familiar with most of them :0! with the very narrow exception of firefly, i did have to go poking around on the wikia for interactions and such to find somewhere to start.

+ secondly you left a couple questions in the tags of her last post so i'll try and answer those too! <3 (i would kill for your tags btw i hope you know that /pos)

also tagging @sundays-wing-piercing + @lesbianbootheng as per usual <3

kafka:

this is a weird one because kafka, besides firefly and blade, is likely the one that interacts with xiayu the most. pops up whenever she’s least expected, just looking to see what she might be up to every few years. depending upon how you see the relationship she has with the trailblazer, she probably feels as if she has some … vague responsibility to look out for her. keep her out of trouble at least.

its not like her parents need her to, with three trailblazers someone would be lucky to walk away with all their fingers if they touched a hair on her head, but it never hurt to just. check on her if she was on planet. then message her. then meet up with her. of course not. kafka’s the furthest thing from maternal, but she fits neatly into a rich aunt slot. sort of. if that rich aunt had a gun.

though i dont think kafka would want her to be a hunter. as much as she preaches that xiayu should be equally fearless (“a vidyadhara with magic at her fingertips and a half decent shot with an axe? tell me, what is it that one little dragon has to be afraid of?”), its not like approves of her putting herself in unnecessary danger. not without her present, at least.

appreciates the finer things in life. sends ahead these dubiously earned things in the space mail for xiayu to wear or use. most of these things are packed away in her closet, but sometimes she wears this pearl bracelet kafka bought her for her fifteenth birthday (“oh hush, trailblazer. she could use something a little womanly, don’t you think?”).

occasionally, if they do run into each other, they get dinner. discuss nothing of any true importance, its off script usually between scenes, and having someone new around — young, fresh — its invigorating to kafka.

what xiayu thinks of her is equally a mystery. i think she considered becoming a hunter shortly after march’s death and still rides the fence on the topic today, but before kafka died, she’d said elio had no place for her in the script. that she was never going to be a true actor in any of their scenes.

of course, necessary redirection. whether xiayu continues to take this as proper advice is truly up to time. whether it was fate that she eventually loses everyone but her father (and that she will lose him someday), she’s not sure if she wants to be a slave to destiny. really, she doesnt know if she already is or not.

blade:

i. am not sure. i am incredibly xing/yue pilled, im ren//heng pilled only because a beloved mutual of mine is, so xiayu just appearing in canon probably throws blade for a loop. a) *how* and b) why.

(in my uber perfect world its just one big polycule. jinghengren / danstellemarch / stellefly. this is not my uber perfect world)

but i like to imagine a canon where blade and dan heng are able to reconcile their past lives and at least become amicable towards each other again. maybe not friends, but also not stab-on-sight.

xiayu is so small and innocent to him that hes just not really sure what to make of her. this ankle biting child that clings onto his pants is not exactly easily understood and he does not want to be left alone with her. at all. so much joy in a tiny person good god. he’d sooner pawn her off to kafka or firefly before she stays with him.

though i dont think she’s scared of him. fascinated by him maybe, esp as a child she likes his eyes. its bit terrifying to turn a little and see a baby staring you down though.

but an older xiayu, if blade lives long enough to see her mature into a young adult ... is probably not all that different from firefly. amped to 11. hes not sure where she gets the energy (read: its from march). surely he comes to care about her just a smidge. a little even. maybe has one of the hunters send a message for him if theyre both on the same planet (though kafka will usually message her first). she gets exactly one (1, singular) sword-wielding lesson from him, and thats about it. to him, she has potential, if she just matures a little.

seeing someone so ready to throw their life away when she’s so young and full of life is … disorienting. his time has been up for quite a long time now, but her’s is just beginning. he cant make heads or tails of why shes like this.

i wonder if he sees dan heng in her, in her face, wonder if hes seeing his old friend in three separate ways -- through dan feng, dan heng and now his daughter. terrible facade she puts up after march and stelle are gone, but should he live long enough to see them pass, i think blade of all people might be the one to rationalize their deaths to her. after all, its finality at work. you cant escape fate, you can only use it. life goes on, and even if you don’t wan it, people will stay you with long after they’ve left this plane.

though blade’s good ending to me is him dying long before xiayu is born at all. this is just a hypothetical.

silver wolf:

im not sure silver wolf knows what to make of the trailblaze baby. and im not sure that xiayu knows what to make of her either. unlike her and firefly they relate on less things and are closer in age as well. begrudgingly, silver wolf probably offers to play games with her when she gets old enough.

though, i do think she keeps an eye out for her in public channels. nothing too fancy, silver wolf wouldnt be caught dead risking her neck for a kid that didn’t even care about her all that much — but she figures its the least she can do if kafka likes her. she’ll remove a record here, tip the scales in her favor there, other than that theyre simply gaming partners and not much else.

silver wolf is still the better gamer. just because xiayu lives longer doesn’t mean she’ll ever win. after all, silver wolf has never pulled her punches.

firefly:

firefly was at the baby shower. for sure. she brought a little gift, it was xiayu's first mobile. i like to think it had butterflies patterned like her dress over it. looking out for her, in a way lol

also, the only stellaron hunter allowed to babysit. not that the three of them tend to use babysitters very often, but if firefly isn't on a script, stelle sometimes calls her.

i dont think xiayu has ever seen sam for herself 🤔 even if we’re particularly optimistic im not actually sure how long firefly will live for in canon. she might not even live long enough into xiayu’s “normal” adulthood at 20ish. given she may discover her “aunt’s” altered form on her own, but its not incredibly likely and thats okay. firefly wants to be known as herself to xiayu, rather than what she was made to be.

flair for the dramatics though. is the one sending all the (watered down) stories for xiayu to read. cultivates her thrill seeking, and she thinks being a stellaron hunter is SO cool for a little while.

firefly (?) maybe have been the first time she experienced true loss, if himeko + welt didnt go first. i think that was a bit of a shell shock, but thats also probably how she figured out she could keep sending messages to dead people’s ids. she misses her aunt too.

i think out of all of the hunters, firefly is the one she was closest with. someone she could really talk to if she got into an argument with her parents or if she just wanted to do something silly or girly or mundane with a non family member.

i do think that firefly inspired her to be just who she was though. not stelle or march or dan heng. just that she herself was enough, that she herself was at her best no matter what. it was a rather sweet parting gift that firefly left for her, and i think it must be one of her accessories that she also wears.

-

and then i'll do my very best to address these!

xiayu's catcake is named dragonfruit creamcake <3 munyamunyamunyamunyamunya, that poor cat will meow your ear off until you get sick of it or it manages to tire itself out. then itll plop itself in your lap and youre not allowed to move unless you want it to yap at you even more.

it does seem particularly fond of rice dumpling, trashcake and ice cake. it likes to "chat" whenever anyone unlucky enough to enter the lab interacts with it, and has routinely managed to escape the little catcaketopia in ruan mei’s lab. truly, it has asta stumped -- ruan mei didn't create it, the trailblazer didn't make it, where did this creation come from?

like any good mother with their rambunctious toddler, stelle of course took xiayu out to teach her baseball. now, this did mean pompom lost a vase or two whenever xiayu swung a little too hard on the express, but by the time she's a little older she has decent technique. because she doesn't carry the traditional bat, shes not known as the galactic baseballer, but it worries yanqing that she doesn't wield the axe like an axe -- its distinctly as if she treats it like a bludgeoning object.

(classically trained swordsman v gung-ho axe wielder, who wins?)

interestingly enough, xiayu sees yanqing as an estranged elder brother almost. he often wonders if he was this irresponsible as a child, and then thanks jing yuan for raising him. multiple times.

she is decent at video games! she prefers a handheld console that stelle bought for her compared to the phone that she owns, she and stelle are 1-4 right now on one of the newer games, she’s just waiting for her mom to get back to do a proper rematch. until then, she plays other games on her console.

extra fact i thought of while writing this: do you think dan heng is the one that sees his partners in his daughter? like, has a deja vu moment everytime she smiles a certain way or says something just the way one of them would? he knows he isn't dan feng, he never wanted to be treated as such, but to acknowledge the same of xiayu, that she isn't her mothers, that is so much more difficult.